


are you getting away (with who you're trying to be)

by butiwaswildonce



Series: Are you getting away with who you’re trying to be [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, An exploration of mental health and complicated families, Baker Betty Cooper, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Betty and Jughead are 30, Class Differences, Class Issues, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Grief, Mentions of Suicide, Mutual Pining, Parent death -- Hal and Alice die offscreen at the beginning so big trigger warning for that, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Unresolved Sexual Tension, canonical self harm mentions, ex-prisoner Jughead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-11-15 05:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 45,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20861231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butiwaswildonce/pseuds/butiwaswildonce
Summary: Betty has recently moved to Riverdale with her sister, fulfilling her dream of opening her own bakery. Small-town life was never part of her plan, but after a family tragedy and the breakdown of her marriage, she figures life plans aren’t all they’re cracked up to be anyway.Jughead sometimes feels like he’s holding the whole world above his head, waiting for it to all come crashing down. He’s trying to balance his obligations to his motorcycle club and father, to do right by his sister and keep her safe, and stay out of prison for good. The new girl in town feels like a bit of quiet among the chaos, but the last thing either of them expected was each other.





	1. chasing down a wild fire

**Author's Note:**

> So. I'm going to be honest, I watched half of season 2 through the gaps in my fingers then decided it wasn't worth it and moved on with my life. I forgot about this WIP. Then I found it, and decided I still enjoy this universe, so i'm continuing with it. 
> 
> There will be no serial killers or cults. Hal Cooper was not the Black Hood, he was just a kind of shitty, but normal, dad. S1 characterizations of Alice and Polly apply. Blossoms and Coopers aren't related in this. No surprise incest here! No thanks!
> 
> Also, as a disclaimer. Jellybean is essentially an OC, because not only had we not even met her in S1, but she's an adult in this. I still like my fanon Jellybean though, so she's staying. I hope you like her too.
> 
> Please be aware of the warnings in the tags. I promise this is a story about recovery, but I try to show both the in between and the other side of (some) severe mental health issues. Look after yourselves!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Sleep anxiety, grief and unhealthy coping mechanisms, depression, substance abuse, mentions of canonical self harm, discussion of traumatic arrests, discussion of post-prison release trauma, PTSD
> 
> Any other things you think need tagging, please let me know!

_‘one mourns when one accepts the fact that the loss one undergoes will be one that changes you, changes you possibly forever, and that mourning has to do with agreeing to undergo a transformation the full result of which you cannot know in advance’ ~ Judith Butler _

***

There was a phone ringing in the distance, the sound harsh and violent against the still of the night, vibrating through the walls of the house, breaking Betty and Mark Daniels out of their slumber.

A pale hand gropes in the dark, slipping from beneath the bedclothes to the landline on the bedside table. With a start, Betty heaves herself up into a seated position and answers the call.

In that singular action, the world distorts, and all of a sudden --- nothing would ever be the same again.

The words on the other side of the line sink into her skin like a toxic substance, coiling around her bones. Polly, Betty’s sister, speaks in a voice empty and detached, almost at a whisper;

“There’s been an accident.”

The breath leaves her body as panic rises to her throat, mind racing, and the image of her niece and nephew dead or injured throws her into action.

“Kyle? Beth? Are they ok? What---”

“_No_, Betty, not… they’re okay. It’s --- Mom,” Polly chokes on the word, and Betty clasps a hand to her mouth as her whole body goes still in horror. “And --- and Dad,” Polly finishes.

The space between her ears goes static and _Oh, God,_ is all her mind supplies.

“Oh, God, Pol---” Betty croaks out, her fist clenching around the phone, her knuckles turning white. “What happened?”

“They were driving home, and, and they were hit by a truck--” Betty chokes at this, before Polly continues, still using the strange detached voice, “they… they’re both d--- gone. But I, I have to go to the hospital, --- the police, they’re here… and I _can’t---”_

Betty feels the bed move next to her, and looks up into the eyes of her husband, the dim light from their bedside lamp casting shadows across his wary expression as he raises his hand to her back, rubbing gentle circles against her shoulder blades. Polly is still talking, and she needs to _say_ something, anything - but it’s at this, this attempt at comfort from beside her, that she just falls apart. The phone falls from her grip, and a sob wracks through her. Arms fall around her, and for a while, Betty just lets herself cry.

~~~

Time begins to move in an ambiguous fashion after that night, the loss seemingly penetrating the very dimensions of time and space. The night of that call seemed to move at an alarmingly quick pace, and thus was remembered as little more than a blur.

But Betty remembers the funeral with perfect clarity, as those hours seemed to drip by, making her thoughts thick and slow like molasses.

Despite how beautiful the service was, despite the large crowd of attendees, a testament to the lives which Hal and Alice Cooper touched – despite all this, it all made Betty feel ill.

It was the banal niceties,_ I’m so sorry for your loss_, the half-truths, _your mother was a wonderful person_. They made her stomach turn and fists clench as she tried to come to grips with the overwhelming sense of detachment from her own body that seemed to drift over her at those words.

Alice Cooper had been many things; an unrelenting reporter, a helicopter parent, a fierce mother. Betty, however, was certain no-one had described Alice Cooper as a _wonderful person _when she had been alive.

Betty wants desperately to bury her cynicism, to swallow her bitter anger, to smile and say_ thank you, that means a lot_. So she does, because she’s Betty Cooper. She’s polite to a fault, and the kind of girl who doesn’t want to trouble people with the complexities of her own grief. Besides --- she knows it’s unfair on others to expect them to know how to act or what to say.

_She_ doesn’t know how to act or what to say.

That doesn’t stop the quiet anger bubbling away inside her, as the months drag on, as painful as pulling teeth. Her rage begins speaking at her, begging her to lash out at the next person --- usually her clueless husband --- who says something like _'they would want you to move on'._

It’s a nice thought, really. Moving on. Continuing on with things. Not dwelling on the pain, not drinking herself to the brink each night and throwing herself into her work each morning. Not hollowing out her brain with an axe made of fucking _decades_ of buried resentment for her parents and spewing it all over the walls of her carefully planned life.

Without them around, nothing about the life she leads makes sense to her anymore.

Betty’s entire life trajectory had been mapped out by her parents since before she was born. Betty would be a nice girl. Betty would get good grades. Betty would stay home on weekends to finish her homework. She would always take on responsibilities handed to her with a smile and a _‘glad to help’._ She would graduate top of her class, and she would marry her high school boyfriend – a nice, decent man, from a nice,_ decent _family.

The ‘nice’ and the ‘decent’ are of course loaded adjectives, subjectively defined, and were intended by Hal and Alice Cooper to mean stable job, no skeletons in the closet, and a clean, wholesome, middle-class All-American family.

Mark fit all those categories, and then some.

(It’s this that stops Betty from ever really being able to love him.)

Most importantly, however, she would never, _not once,_ mention the cloying, suffocating, incessant despair that corroded her and sometimes made her feel like jumping in her car and driving until no-one could ever find her again.

With her grief as the catalyst, every single one of her carefully buried resentments that she had worked so hard to repress finally released themselves one night, six months after her parents’ death, culminating in the worst argument of her entire life.

Mark bears the brunt of her venom, the truth of their life laid out before the both of them.  
He packs his bags and leaves her, and does not come back. _Good,_ she thinks. Let him leave her alone. Things are better, easier, when she has no-one to pretend to smile at every morning. 

It’s with a calm sort of horror that she realized she’d spent the better part of a decade married to someone she’s not even sure she_ likes._

~~~

It’s a long time --- it seems to speed past her, but in reality was merely months, that mystery of time fooling her consistently --- before Betty can accept that this is not going away, this painful chasm inside of her.

Bad habits form around her in a way she would not have allowed had her mother been alive, reprimanding her for her eye-bags and weight gain. Working 75 hours at a time at the restaurant, drinking half a bottle of wine just to fall asleep, curling her fingers inwards hard enough to gouge her palms in little bleeding cuts just to feel _something_ – those habits eat away at her and those around her, until she loses her job --- the one she’d been steadily working towards seemingly her whole life, and finally Polly demands she seeks help.

Her face is pleading, tears already staining her flushed cheeks as she implores Betty. “Please. I don’t know what would happen if I lost you, too.”

It’s this that gets through to her, and the next day Betty is talking to her doctor about her insomnia, anxiety, and all the dark, gaping parts of her that she’s covered and clotted and pushed down, all rising up to the brink to expose her like a raw nerve. It’s liberating, really, to admit it out loud.

Betty Daniels (_née _Cooper): not perfect. Not even close. _And that’s just fine._

~~~

The baking, it begins as a coping strategy, suggested by her therapist as a way to keep her hands and mind busy. It makes sense – she’s a trained pastry chef, and had been working her ass off as the underling to one of her pâtisserie icons for the past two years. Of course the method of coping she decides on is something so directly related to her passion.

It’s also something her and her mother would do together when she was young, before puberty altered Betty’s weight distribution and Alice decided carbohydrates were the enemy.

Making bread is something she had done before, but it was never something she understood the point of beyond simply knowing how.

This time around, however, the methodical steps alongside the laborious activity of kneading dough is a dichotomy she feels holds some sort of metaphorical symbolism for her own state of mind, the careful and the aggressive, and soon her home is overtaken with loaves and loaves and loaves. It consumes her, overtaking any and all of her waking thoughts.

She begins with the everyday whole-wheat loaf, she experiments with store-bought yeast and sourdough from scratch and all sorts of different seeds and spices, and she is no longer a pastry chef. She’s a baker.

Bread is her favorite to make, but the experimentation continues and soon she has notebooks entirely filled with recipes, her own variations on the classics, and a house full of baked goods. Her niece and nephew are always excited to try her new creations, and if she hadn’t been their only aunt, she suspected her new hobby would have solidified her role as favorite aunt.

Soon, an idea of her doing this for real, begins to percolate, occupying her daydreams. It’s a simpler version of her previous dream, but it fills her with joy. _Joy._ That evasive emotion that she had always felt was just that little bit past her reach.

When her divorce to Mark is finalized, Betty, a Cooper in name once more, starts striding toward that new dream, anticipatory and fulfilled and hopeful.

Seemingly her whole adult life, she had dreamed of nothing but being a pastry chef in a top restaurant in New York City, but here she was, passing it all on. She wanted something else now. The city, the job, the husband, they all belonged to the girl she once was, the girl who did not know grief as she had.

Because that’s something they don’t talk about, all those clichés about grief – it never goes away, and you never do return to who you once were.

Rather, the grief inserts itself inside you, and you grow around it, fuller, larger, but also a little emptier. There’s no reconciling the before and after, there is really just _then _and_ now_. And the Betty of now --- she’s nearing thirty and divorced, jobless, and battling her demons every day.

But the fact that she_ is_, in fact, battling is what gives her hope. Because wanting something --- when you’ve felt nothing but the blunt cuts of apathy or the sharp sting of fury, and nothing much in between, for so long --- is worth all the risk in the world.

In the end, the choice to move to Riverdale is so easy it almost feels inevitable. 

That Polly, a single mother of two seven year olds who adored their Aunt Betty, would follow her, was also entirely without question.

***

When Betty was a small child, her father used to put her on his shoulders and walk her around. She would bounce and giggle at the tops of people’s heads beneath her, with the sky just that much closer. Her stomach would swoop with the thrill of it, and life felt full of possibility.

As she takes a step back on the footpath bathed in late afternoon sun, shielding her eyes from the glare as she looks up, she feels the exact same thing.

“To the right --- no, the other right. Yes, right --- no, up just a bit.” She directs in a raised voice, resting a hand on her hip and jutting it slightly in a stretch.

The two men attaching the sign for her bakery adjust according to her instructions, the redhead, Archie Andrews, trying desperately not to drop the heavy object as the brunette, apparently named Moose (Betty politely did not question it, but she had really wanted to) over-corrects and tilts the sign just that little bit too far.

Narrowly avoiding a disaster, they finally fit it into place, each sighing with relief. On the ground, Betty echoes the sentiment. The final touch has been applied, and she feels a sense of completion.

It was weeks after her big opening. Riverdale was an interesting place, but a bustling arena for business it was not. When she had ordered the sign for her bakery, she had expected it to arrive _before_ she opened. Unfortunately, that had not been the case.

Fortunately, from what she could tell, it hadn’t made much of an impact, because people were certainly frequenting her shop. They came in at first because they were curious about the new blonde from the city setting up business in their town, but they came back because she’s good at what she does. It filled her with a satisfactory pride she had never truly known before.

It was almost six months since her and Polly had left New York behind for good.

The construction workers who had been her employees for the better part of that time each make their way down the ladder, smiling due to a job well done and finally finished. 

“I can’t thank you enough. Really, I don’t know how you achieved all this in such a short time frame.” Betty says, moving toward them. 

“Honestly, you’ve got to stop thanking us. We’re happy for the work.” Archie replies. He holds his hand out for her to shake, as does Moose. “We hardly ever get big projects like yours. But if you want to pay us in more of those cinnamon rolls of yours, feel free!” Archie jokes.

“I’ll bring some to Veronica’s dinner party this weekend, if that’s still happening?”

“Oh, it’s definitely happening. She hired caterers.” There’s something resigned but fond in his tone, a sloping smile at the corner of his mouth.

Betty laughs, knowing without a doubt that if anyone was going to hire help for what was meant to be a _casual _dinner party for friends, it was Veronica Lodge-Andrews.

She had befriended the spitfire of a woman that Archie was married to so quickly that she sometimes wondered how it was they had slipped right past ‘casual acquaintances’ to the intimacy of ‘lifelong confidants’, in a matter of literal days.

Betty had hired her, eventually, when it became apparent that, while she was a talented baker, her business prowess was lacking. Veronica, who had been managing Archie’s father’s construction business for years, had been a saving grace.

Archie admires the sign, and when he looks back at Betty, he pauses for a moment, seeming to consider something. In a friendly gesture, he lifts his arms around her in a brief hug, catching Betty by surprise. “Congratulations, Betty.” He smiles, turning to Moose, “We’d better head out, we’ve got that meeting at 5.”

“Yeah, hey, I’ll see you soon Betty, and like Archie said --- congratulations.” Moose smiles broadly at her, his boyish face lighting up with it.

“Thanks, guys. Truly. I’ll see you both soon.” And with a wave, they stride off, lumbering along the sidewalk toward their company van.

As the two men fade from view, she allows a moment of introspection, reflecting on the changes in herself over the past months. She unfurls her hands, glancing down at her palms. Faint, barely there crescent moons stare back at her, healed over and now the reminder of how far she had come.

~~~

Her parents had grown up and met in Riverdale. It was where they had been married, and brought their first home. Three decades after they had left for the career opportunities of New York, Alice pregnant with Polly, that home had been inherited by Betty and Polly. It was now inhabited by not only Hal and Alice’s daughters, but also their grandchildren. It seemed like the perfect homage to their parents, returning there. With the money they gained from selling their parents’ New York home, Polly had insisted Betty use it to purchase her own shop to fulfill her dream --- a bakery of her own.

Months of renovation, recruiting the right staff, training and teaching and building connections with businesses and suppliers in Riverdale, investing in the necessary equipment and pouring her heart, soul and body into it, led her here.

Now, beneath the sunlight along the main stretch of road that holds all of Riverdale’s most frequented businesses, a sign hangs above a cute little shop, decorated in pale yellow. The sign read _Cooper’s Cakes,_ with a cupcake beside the ‘C’. The simplicity, as well as a tribute to her family name, represents her future as well as her past, and she swells with pride at the thought.

Inside, she stares around at her shop, lined with softly cushioned booths in a pastel blue, with a wrap around counter in front of the giant display cases, emptied after a busy day. Behind the counter is a heavy door that leads to an industrial sized kitchen.

Her newest staff member, officially hired only recently to be Betty’s assistant and head of retail, when Betty had realized she could not possibly do everything that she was trying to do on her own --- was to be arriving in an hour for an orientation and training, and she figured she should get started on some of the many tasks that lay ahead of her, to prepare for the next day.

Betty’s mixing dough and humming quietly under her breath when she hears the chime of the front door.

“I’m in the kitchen!” she shouts over the whirring of the blender, before realizing that the sound of the machine alone probably would have alerted the visitor to that fact already.

“Yeah, I figured.” a young woman dressed in a faded Pink Floyd t-shirt, with pale skin and dark, wild curls falling about her face, strolls through the entryway, a coy smile on her lips and a glint in her dark brown eyes. “Hey, Betty. You ready to teach me your magic?”

“JB! You’re early!” Betty turns the blender off, turning to face her newest employee. _“and_, it’s not magic. It’s science.”

JB rolls her eyes and shoves her hands in the pockets of ripped Levi’s. “No way. Your brownies are _otherworldly_, you cannot tell me otherwise.”

Betty smirks, secretly relishing the praise but trying to remain modest. “Okay. I won’t.”

It was true. Her brownies were spectacular. When interviewing the candidates for her staff a couple months ago, hosting them at her home because the shop had been not quite finished, she’d made some of her favorite recipes --- including her brownies.

JB had eaten three, and then asked for a Tupperware container and packed another four, explaining that they were for her brother.

The girl was certainly forward.

Jellybean Jones, the whirlwind who preferred the moniker JB, had been thrown into Betty’s path by way of a newspaper advert for new kitchen staff. JB had insisted that Betty hire her because, apparently, the dive bar she used to tend for was ‘too disgusting for _words_’, and JB had dramatically exclaimed that Betty was her only hope of escape.

Having the least experience, and following the somewhat loaded advice of Veronica --- there was a story_ there,_ Betty knew, but she didn’t quite know what --- JB had missed out on the first round of hires. But Betty had called her again recently when she knew she needed someone with both the energy to shadow Betty, and extroversion to connect with customers.

“So, I think today I’m going to demonstrate some of the basic recipes that we use every day, that way we can get some of the prep work for tomorrow done as well, and it will orient you with some of the equipment that you might not be familiar with.”

In response, JB salutes her jokingly, grabbing an apron from the shelf of them beside the walk in pantry, throwing her unruly hair into a net, and Betty switches to teacher mode.

Quick on the uptake, JB falls into pace with Betty seamlessly, and the nerves Betty didn’t even realize she was feeling dissipate. She’s sharp, hard-working, and despite her sarcastic and mouthy persona, follows instructions to the letter.

She just might be the perfect fit.

~~~

The wind is rushing out of her body in short bursts, her chest heaving with effort, and she can feel the sweat on her brow threatening to drip into her eyelashes. With a final burst of energy, Betty races to the river’s edge, before gracelessly flopping on the bank of leaves, her quadriceps burning and knees grateful for the reprieve. With a heavy sigh, she opens her eyes to the sky, the adrenaline rush pulsing over her.

She’d taken up running in high school, but had done it less and less as real life got in the way over the years. Now, she used it as a way to wind down after work each day, and the setting of Sweetwater River was the perfect place to burn off the excess energy she had from spending an entire day full of doing exactly what she loves.

A contented smile graced her lips, and she sits up to look out at the rushing river in the light of the setting sun. Her smile falters slightly when she notes a lone figure on the rocks up ahead, hunched over a notebook laptop, typing with what looks like intense concentration.

_Huh._

It was a strange place to write, especially using a laptop. Betty, in particular, felt second hand nerves for the man, because she certainly would not risk using such an expensive piece of technology near such a large body of water.

As he remains involved in his task, unaware of her presence, Betty allows herself to stare.

She was curious. The man was seated, but had the lean frame of a taller person, with jet black hair that sits beneath a fraying grey beanie. Black leather is wrapped around his shoulders, and the stark cartoonish patch on his back that brands him a ‘Southside Serpent’ jolts Betty from her reverie.

The nerves of earlier re-appear, for an entirely different reason. She knows that name from disparaging comments made by her friend Kevin, whose father is the town’s Sheriff. 

From the information she could glean from her friendships with Veronica and Kevin, the Serpents were a motorcycle gang of sorts. Her eyes race over the figure one more time, feeling a pang of _something_ she can’t quite name. Perhaps because they had both come here, at this time of day, on this particular day - it felt like recognition, a certain kind of camaraderie that appears between strangers in an empty place.

_Except, he doesn’t know you’re here, and you’re now approaching creepy levels of staring._

Feeling slightly ridiculous, Betty shakes her head minutely to clear her head. It’s possible --- and very likely --- that her new found mental well-being is making her overly sentimental.

Standing and brushing the leaves from her person as best she can, she casts a final glance in his direction, allowing one more thought of him to pass through her mind --- _he looks lonely. _And with that, she rolls her eyes, and runs back in the direction she had come from.

***

Awaking in a cold sweat, heart thundering, Jughead Jones sits up abruptly, gasping for breath. The cold floor beneath him is an anchor, as his waking brain adjusts to consciousness.

Snippets of his dreaming state flash quickly through his mind, jarring him and holding him longer like clawed hands over prey.

The room is immersed in darkness, and he rests his pounding head on the mattress of the bed beside him, steadying his breath and counting backwards from ten, groping desperately for calm.

11 months. It was 11 months since he had been released from Greendale Correctional Facility. Someone really needs to alert his subconscious, which likes to forget whenever he dares to attempt to sleep, that he’s no longer locked in a cage.

There’s a knock on the bedroom door some time later, followed by the yell of his younger sister.

“Jug! Come the fuck on,_ please_ get up!”

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to rid himself of the impending tension headache.

“I’m awake, will you please stop yelling.”

The door opens at his response, and then, in an appalling move of asshole level proportions, she turns on the light. He makes a noise in response he would probably be bothered to be embarrassed about if it were not 3.30 in the morning.

“Damn, JB, do you mind?”

She looks mildly guilty about it, eyeing his position on the floor, a makeshift bed of blankets and cushions beneath him.

Her eyes flicking between the actual bed beside him and where he is currently laying, her expression becomes one of concern, and to Jughead’s consternation, pity. It makes his stomach turn, but he pretends he doesn’t notice and she doesn’t say anything about it, at least. _Small mercies,_ he thinks.

“I’ve got to be at work by 4, in case you’ve forgotten. I’ll meet you in the car!”

She snags the car keys from the hazardously placed pile of books by his door and disappears from view.

With a heavy sigh, he pulls himself up, grimacing at the feeling of dried sweat over his face and upper body, changing his shirt, and pulling on yesterday’s jeans. Shrugging on his Serpents jacket and beanie, he mulls that he can’t wait until JB gets her license back, having lost it months prior due to unpaid speeding tickets.

Until then, Jughead is her personal driver, and she just had to get one of the only jobs in their small town that starts before a reasonable hour.

Of course he had not forgotten, he’d been carting her off to work every morning, by _4 a.m,_ for the last fortnight.

JB’s job at the bakery did have its perks, however. Chiefly, the baked goods that always returned home with her at the end of the day. Remembering the donuts she had brought home the night before, he snags one from the kitchen counter before making his way out to the car, unsteady on his feet. His _bones_ feel exhausted.

The drive from their house on the Southside of town into the main stretch of Riverdale is quiet, save for JB’s ‘Ultimate Driving Playlist’ humming from the speakers. They pull into the curb beside Cooper’s as Jim Morrison chants _’I’ve been down so long, that it looks like up to me’._

“You should come inside.”

Jughead raises a brow in her general direction, “I’d rather not.”

“Come on, Jug. I talk to Betty about you all the time, but you’ve never even made an appearance. There’s a distinct possibility she doubts you actually exist.”

“Well, that_ would _definitely be the end of the world.”

JB attempts to glare at him, but it’s ruined by the fact she’s also trying not to laugh.

“... There’s coffee.”

And so he finds himself entering his sister’s workplace for the first time, immediately struck by a bombardment of mouthwatering scents that waft through the room; cinnamon, vanilla, cloves and fresh bread. His stomach grumbles.

The door to the kitchen swings open and reveals an array of workers bustling about, leaving Jughead disconcerted that he is now sharing space with so many_ morning people_, and more than vaguely uncomfortable beneath the eyes that are upon him and his leather jacket, but JB is grabbing his hand and pulling him into the fray.

There are four people in white coats rolling out a tube of dough on a long table, and cutting, kneading, shaping in a rhythm Jughead finds mesmerizing. The woman on the end of the row, a petite blonde who looks about Jughead’s age, is who JB drags Jughead to.

“Morning, Betty. This is my brother, Jughead.” She pauses and flourishes a hand over Jughead, as if to say _ta-da._ “So, now you know he exists, and that yes, it is his actual name.”

So this is the infamous Betty, Jughead thinks, the woman he has heard about practically non-stop since JB began working for her. She smiles at JB, and then turns her gaze on Jughead, smiling sheepishly.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you, finally.” Her voice is soft and lilting, and it’s the only sound this morning that hasn’t made his headache worse.

Jughead gets the distinct impression from the look in her eyes that he’s missing something, however, and all at once is struck with concern about what exactly his little sister could have been saying about him. Shifting awkwardly, he nods at her in greeting. “Uhhh – yeah. Hey. Same here.”

JB rolls her eyes. “I better get him a coffee.”

Betty smiles and returns to her task, which Jughead takes as a cue to leave, heading out toward the quieter and less overwhelming dining area.

The lights are on a dimmer setting, a calm juxtaposition to the bustle of the kitchen.

He situates himself in one of the soft, cushioned booths, enjoying the atmosphere. It really is a nice place. There hadn’t been anything like it when he was growing up, when the only place he’d frequented to eat was Pop’s, which was a Riverdale institution.

This place didn’t have the same timeless feel, but it was comfortable and inviting. He also figures it’s nice to go some place in his hometown that isn’t filled with bittersweet nostalgia.

He’s a glutton for punishment, sure, but it can get in the way of actually enjoying a meal when all you can think is that _ this is the place where Riverdale’s last bit of innocence came to die._

The kitchen door swings open and Betty comes out, a coffee mug in one hand and a plate in the other. Her eyes find his table and she makes her way over to him, so he sits upright.

“Black coffee, the way JB said you take it – and a ham and cheese croissant.” He opens his mouth but she’s speaking before he can say anything. “On the house.”

He works his jaw, unused to generosity. “Thank you, really. This looks great.” He grinned at her, before he could stop himself.

“You’re welcome. JB is holding the fort in the kitchen, so I thought I’d better bring you sustenance.” She shrugs, and then inexplicably joins him at his booth.

He nods, taking a sip of the coffee, sipping at the piping hot liquid and letting it bring him to life. Feeling vaguely human again, he decides he should at least be polite to her. 

“JB seems to really love working here. Said you’ve been teaching her a lot.”

Betty shrugs, again, and Jughead recognizes the move for what it is. Throwing off mentions of her kindness, or generosity, as though they aren’t a big deal, as though it embarrasses her to have those things acknowledged.

“Well, she’s a great worker. I’m really lucky to have her.”

Jughead smiles at that, and silence stretches between them. Looking back down at the table, he can’t hold off any longer and digs into the croissant. The melted cheese and soft, crumbly dough making him moan, he forgets all sense of civility. “This is fucking delicious,” he mumbles, through a mouthful.

She laughs at him, nose wrinkling in a gesture of disapproval but green eyes shining with amusement. “Should I leave you two alone?” She suggests, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked, taking another massive bite, unashamed in his enjoyment. Having tasted much of the food here from JB’s leftovers, he knew this place was the real deal, but fresh? Indescribable.

She clears her throat. “Well I… better get back to work. Again, it was nice meeting you. I’ll see you around?”

He nods, “Sure. Thanks. Again, for this… it’s really good.” She smiles broadly at that, practically glowing with the compliment.

“Any time.” She says, before heading back through that swinging kitchen door.

~~~

When he leaves Cooper’s it’s still dark outside, but he knows heading home and trying to get some more sleep would be futile. Instead, he drives to his dad’s old trailer in Sunnyside, knowing FP is on more of a nocturnal sleep schedule and likely had not been to sleep yet.

When he arrives, his dad is on the front steps, pulling on a smoke. He nods in Jughead’s direction. “Jug.”

“Hey, dad.” FP pulls out a pack of cigarettes, flicking the lid open and holding it out for Jughead. He takes one out and lights up, sitting on the step beside him.

“Any luck?” FP asks him, and Jughead’s surprised he remembers.

“Not yet.” Shame coils in the pit of his stomach at the memory of his last few job applications, knowing with absolute certainty that the little ‘have you ever been convicted of a felony?’ box was working against him every time. He hadn’t once been called in for an interview.

He wasn’t picky, either. But Riverdale didn’t exactly have a thriving economy, and options were slim. He’s always got his job at the White Wyrm, but he was trying to distance himself from the Serpents. Not become further embedded. 

Employment options outside of Serpent business were a step toward the kind of life he wanted to be living. _Needed_ to be living.

FP grunts in recognition, putting his smoke out in the ashtray by the door.

He clears his throat, clearly preparing to say something. Jughead let’s the pause sit between them, waiting. “I’ve been thinking about asking Fred if there’s any work going,” FP ventures, causing Jughead to whip his head up in shock.

Clearing his throat, he replies. “For you or for me?”

“Not me, son. That ship sailed a long time ago. But he might be one of the only people in this town that won’t judge you based on your record. He knows you, kid.”

Jughead grimaced. “_Knew _me. It’s been a long time since Arch and I were friends.”

Almost 15 years, in fact. They still saw each other around town, every now and again. But that friendship had died when Jughead had been moved to Southside High School and the rift between north and south Riverdale grew to be an insurmountable obstacle.

Then Jellybean had returned and his priorities had shifted from maintaining a tenuous, at best, connection with a childhood friend. When Fred had fired FP, when Archie had joined the Riverdale High football team, when the world had decided – long ago, really – that wholesome kids like Archie Andrews had nothing in common with damaged delinquents like Jughead Jones.

FP shrugs at him, “It’s worth a try. Worst he can do is say no.”

And that’s the crux of it, really; the rejection from faceless bosses refusing to employ him is easy to brush off in a way he thinks the same from Fred Andrews, once a second fatherly figure to him, would not be.

Pushed into his hand is a business card, _Andrews Construction _embossed in bold red lettering, with an address and a number on it. He guesses he doesn’t really have all that much choice, and swallows his pride.

~~~

The little makeshift office is styled out of a trailer, but it has an element of permanence to it with its connected garage and shed. Parked outside there’s a green Chevrolet truck and white van, beside a small, shiny Audi. He raises a brow at it,_ German luxury cars?_ Before steeling himself and knocking on the office door.

He’d returned home after seeing FP, to shower and change and pick up a copy of his resume. The thin document, the contents of which Jughead felt really worked more against him than in his favor, weighed like a heavy burden in his hand.

“Come in,” a muffled voice calls.

When Jughead steps inside, he’s greeted with three familiar faces, all older and slightly changed, but still a part of his memory.

It’s Veronica, in all her dark haired, white pearls and tailored blazer glory –_ that explains the Audi _– that speaks first. “Jughead Jones.”

He steps further forward into the room, clearing his throat. “Er – hi. Veronica.” He faces Fred and Archie, greeting them in turn.

Archie smiles at him, not like he used to, but also not with any malice. “Hey, Jughead. What are you doing here?”

Fred’s out of his desk chair, coming forward to shake Jughead’s hand. Nervously, Jughead shifts his resume to his left hand so he can reciprocate. “I heard that you… well, I heard you got out.”

The air is tense, and despite his nerves and his desire to mend fences, Jughead thrives on it. Other people’s discomfort around him, he’s used to it. It doesn’t catch him off-guard, or make him wary, like open-faced kindness often does.

“Yeah. Almost a year ago, now.”

Fred raises his eyebrows, “Haven’t seen much of you around, I’d thought that maybe the stint was a little more recent.”

Jughead feels himself shrink inward, cautious. “I’ve been keeping to myself, mostly. Sticking to the Southside.’

“Right.” Things were shifting from tense to awkward, and Jughead figures he’s made it this far, so he jumps.

“Look. I, um. I don’t mean to interrupt, but I was wondering… if you had any job vacancies.” Fred looks shocked at this, but Jughead continues talking. “I had a carpentry position in prison. And I’m willing to do whatever, any hours, anything really.” Haphazardly, he pushes his resume into Fred’s hands, avoiding his eyes in favour of glaring at the paper strewn desk behind him.

It’s Archie who steps towards him. “Sure, Jug. We can always use more hands on the job.” And he says it with such ease, such effortless acceptance, it throws Jughead off completely.

Incredulity sweeps over him, at the same time Veronica clears her throat, shooting a gaze at Archie that Jughead can’t begin to read. Archie shakes his head at her, though, and turns to Fred. “Right, dad?”

Fred looks from Archie to Jughead, and with a typically laid back shrug of his shoulders, he agrees. “Yeah, yeah. That would be great, Jughead.”

A slow smile spreads over Jughead’s face, and he looks down at the floor, swallowing the hope in his chest until it’s tampered down and buried.

“Really?” He looks between the two men, wondering why it had been so easy. Surely it can’t be that simple. He’s an ex-con, an ex-friend, a _Jones._

“We’ll get Veronica to write you up a contract, and send it through for you to read and sign. We’ve got a couple big jobs coming up next month, but at the moment work is a little irregular.”

He nods. “Works for me. I’m bartending at the White Wyrm some nights still, so that’s okay.”

Recognition flashes across Fred’s face, and he gives a tight smile. Veronica approaches them with a pen and paper, passing the items to Jughead. “Your e-mail. So I can send through the contract.” She’s stand-offish, and he supposes her intention is to throw him off. Clearly, she doesn’t remember him very well.

“Sure, thanks.” He scrawls the address there, and on second thought adds his cell phone number. “Just in case,” he adds, to a question she didn’t ask.

He turns to Fred and shakes his hand, thanking him. Archie claps him on the back, leaving him with the phrase, “I’ll see you soon, buddy.”

His blood runs cold and then hot in quick succession, the friendly term striking him with a wave of grief for his childhood best friend. “Yeah. Thank you, again. You will.”

With a shaky exhale, Jughead makes his way back out to his car.

Bundled up on the passenger seat is his Serpents jacket, covering his laptop.

All at once the exhaustion hit him again, and a wave of nausea passed over him, a symptom of his sleep deprivation. Checking the rearview mirrors, he backs up the car, and drives.

***

Betty runs a hand through her hair, further messing up her ponytail, as she cleans the serving counter and display cases. With a sigh, JB comes out from the kitchen.

“All done in there.” She yawns with exaggeration. “Anything else you need me to do?”

“Thank you JB. No, that’s fine. Is your brother here yet?” Betty questions.

JB looks out the glass doors, straining her neck. “Doesn’t look like it. Weird. He’s usually here by now.”

She takes out her cell phone, dialing a number and bringing the phone up to her ear. Betty watches from the corner of her eye as JB repeats this process three more times, before asking. 

“Is everything okay?”

JB looks at her with wide eyes, biting her lip. “I don’t know. Jug’s not here, and he’s not answering his phone.”

Betty frowns. “Is there any reason he’d be late and not let you know?”

JB shakes her head, dialing the number again.

A pit of anxiety settles in Betty as she picks up on JB’s worry. “Can I drive you home? Maybe he’s there?”

“Would you mind? I’m sorry – I know it’s really out of your way, I can pay you for gas…”

“It’s no problem, really. Come on, let’s go.”

Despite having only met Jughead that day, Betty felt like she knew him already. JB was a conversationalist. A talker. She was the kind of girl who spilled her life story five minutes into meeting her, but always with a coy smile and a glint in her eye, as if to say _there’s more to that story, trust me._

From what Betty had gleaned, she’d had a rough life. When Betty had asked JB one day why she had never gone to college, JB had gotten a haunted look on her face and stuttered. Betty’s heart had jumped to her throat in her desperation to clarify that she didn’t mean anything by it, and that JB didn’t need to tell her anything.

Then, JB had smiled gently, and told Betty of how her brother had been sent to prison six years ago, her senior year of high school. That she couldn’t leave her dad, a recovering alcoholic, and wanted to be close to where Jughead was being held, and that she didn’t have money (or the brains, JB insisted self-deprecatingly) for higher education.

There was a sense of lament in her words that Betty could almost trace, and she gets the sense that perhaps despite her insistence that she _absolutely would never go to school willingly,_ college may have been something she had once wanted. It hit Betty somewhere deep and painful.

It brought the distinctions between their lives into sharp focus. Her whole life, college had been her only path. When Betty had decided to go to culinary school instead of attending an Ivy League and majoring in journalism, her parents became apoplectic, swearing her life would veer off course and end in tragic joblessness, and eventual abject poverty. 

When Jughead had come into the bakery that morning, Betty had recognized him immediately as the man from Sweetwater River. She’d thought about him over the last few weeks, the curious writer in a leather jacket. That he was the same person that JB described as both ‘the smartest person in Riverdale’ and ‘the moodiest person alive’, and Betty guessed, a brother she loved very much – had kind of thrown her for a loop. She was intrigued by him.

Somehow, Betty had become unwittingly entangled and emotionally invested in the life of Jellybean Jones, and that included her enigma of a brother.

So, that he may or may not be missing or in some kind of trouble? It sent Betty into a fretful state. Trying to measure her breathing and control her anxiety, Betty pulls out of her regular parking spot, with JB at her side.

“You’ve gotta follow this road until you get to the big intersection, then hang a left.”

JB’s bouncing her leg up and down, and repeatedly re-dialing Jughead’s phone, every time coming up with no answer. Panic flits between the two women in a way that’s almost material, enacting itself in every fidget of their bodies and twitch of their hands.

“Try not to worry too much. We’ll see if he’s home, and if he’s not, we’ll try wherever else you think he could have gone.”

JB nods, gnawing on her thumbnail. “It’s just…” she starts. Stops.

Betty glances at her in question, and she continues. “It’s just that, the last time he didn’t show up where he said he would be he, um. It was when he was arrested.”

Betty sucks in a breath, feeling an overwhelming sympathy for the young woman beside her. Before she can reply, JB is talking again, characteristically over-sharing in what Betty can now recognize is both a defense mechanism and false bravado.

“He was meant to be picking me up from school, I had dance practice. I waited outside for like, two fucking hours.” She shakes her head at the memory, frowning at the road in front of them, staring into the distance.

“Finally I decided to just walk home. When I got there, there was a note from dad stuck to the door – I didn’t have a cell phone back then, we couldn’t afford it – and it just said _‘Jug arrested. At the police station.’_ And when I finally got there, they’d already transferred him to Centreville.” Her voice was bitter, and she looked over at Betty once more. “He wouldn’t just _not show up_, Betty. Something’s wrong.”

Nodding, Betty increases her speed a little, trying to process what she had just been told while also not appearing like she was trying to process it. She didn’t want to make JB uncomfortable, and she’d learned over the years that her personal brand of righteous indignation could sometimes make the subjects of her defense feel uneasy.

It was something she was working on.

And she really had no idea what to say.

Finally they arrive at JB’s home, a tiny dilapidated house that more resembles a cabin than anything else. There’s a truck parked outside. “Is that your car?”

JB nods, and opens her door, stepping out of the car. “Yeah. That’s a good sign, right?”

Betty doesn’t answer, just follows after JB to the front door.

JB opens the door while yelling Jughead’s name, and immediately stops when she gets inside. Betty can’t see why until she’s over the threshold.

Jughead is asleep on a couch, still wearing his beanie and leather jacket, a moth eaten, threadbare blanket strewn across his knees where they’re curled up into him.

Surveying the scene, both JB and Betty seem to see the pill packet and half-drunk bottle of beer on the coffee table at the same time.

JB rushes forward in a panic, shaking him and shouting his name.

Betty goes to the coffee table to see what he’s taken, and how much.

_Kirkland Sleep Aid, _she reads. It looks like he’s only taken one or two, but there’s a warning on the label to not mix with alcohol.

She marches to his side just as he stirs awake.

His eyes open slowly, blinking rapidly, confusion clear in his face. He looks directly at Betty, blue eyes piercing and questioning, before falling on JB.

“Shit. JB, what’s happening?” His voice was groggy and he looked shocked by the slurring in his tone.

Betty exhales a breath, relieved at the fact he seemed coherent, but that little niggling worry settled in the foreground of her mind, planting seeds and taking root.

Betty’s been worrying about other people her whole life. It’s a habit as natural to her as breathing.

“What did you take, Jug?” JB sits beside him, worry etched into her youthful face with the shadows of an older person she shouldn’t have to be yet.

Jughead shrugs and mumbles something, clearly drowsy and finding it difficult to converse.

He bends his head down towards his sister, mumbling. “What is Betty doing here?”

JB crosses her arms, looking at Betty apologetically. “She drove me home from work, I was worried when you didn’t show.”

Slowly Jughead lifts his head, looking over at Betty in a moment of raw, honest expression – humiliation and shame are clear in his eyes before turning back to JB. “_Fuck_. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep for that long, It’s just that--” 

JB cuts him off before he can continue, “-- It’s just that you barely sleep and you’ve been driving me to work at 4 a.m every day. It’s okay, Jug. It’s okay.”

Sensing she is now encroaching on what is a vulnerable moment between the siblings, Betty busies herself looking around at their house, and making her way to the kitchen. The roof has patches of mould in the corners, and the walls are covered in thick, bubbled wallpaper, stained and with parts of it curling at the corners. The carpet is mustard yellow, and the smell of cigarette smoke lingers heavily in the air.

The living room, where Betty leaves Jughead and JB to talk, has two paths into other parts of the house, a hallway that leads to what looks like two separate bedrooms, and an open door to the kitchen.

There’s no oven. There’s a microwave, and a hot plate, but there’s no oven. _A kitchen should have an oven_, Betty thinks.

People should eat, after taking sleeping medication with alcohol, right? Betty thinks that Jughead should probably eat something. She picks at the skin of her fingernails before looking through their kitchen cupboards and fridge for something she could turn into a meal.

The cupboards are bare, except for the leftovers from the bakery JB has been taking home with her. The fridge is not a lot better, turning up three applesauce packets, a single cheese stick, and a particularly sad looking apple that she just knew would taste stale and floury.

There’s a chill in her veins and a lump in her throat and she’s trying desperately,_ desperately, _not to freak out. She’s never been in a house like this before.

She wants to invite them over for dinner, and then maybe live with her. She wants to buy them groceries and clean the mould from the ceiling and curtains and replace the blanket Jughead had been using, with one of her many warm and substantial comforters.

She runs her hands over her face, breathing out a few times. Thirty years old and the urge to fight against injustices like this to everyone who will listen has not left her.

The thirst for fairness and her righteous anger that her mother had scolded her for, had called childish, is as alive in her today as it was at 17, when she had spearheaded letter writing campaigns in high school, or at 21 when she had written sharp, political op-eds on her blog. The kind of anger her ex-husband had scoffed at and dismissed, but she’d felt it anyway.

Things shouldn’t be this way.

Shaking herself, she pulls out an applesauce packet, and two of the muffins from the stash of baked goods in the cupboards. As an afterthought, she remembers seeing water glasses in one of the cupboards and grabs one, filling it with tap water.

Negotiating the procured items in her grasp she carries them out to the living room. Jughead appears more awake, and is sitting upright with JB still on the couch beside him.

“You should eat something. And here, drink this,” she says as she passes him the water, and sets the food down on the table beside him.

He averts her gaze, but offers gratitude, and he drinks the water, so Betty figures that’s a win.

Betty meets JB’s gaze, who is looking at her with some trepidation. Betty feels, perhaps, that she has outstayed her welcome. But she’s involved now, and she’s not the kind of person who just leaves things be.

Jughead begins picking hungrily at one of her muffins, and she hopes that means he’s okay. ‘A healthy appetite’ is a common adage for a reason, right?

She wonders at his risk-taking in pursuit of sleep, at the deep purple shadows beneath his eyes. She remembers what that feels like.

Betty clears her throat, before asking, “I was wondering if you both would like to come around for dinner at my place, tomorrow night?”

JB lights up. “Really? That would be awesome!”

Her enthusiasm is undercut, somewhat, by Jughead’s moody response,“_Why_?” but JB elbows him in the ribs and he changes his answer.

Betty smiles. Small victories. “Wonderful. We usually eat about 7, if you want to come over around then. I think Polly and I will be making Lasagne. ”

JB nods enthusiastically.

“Uh, sure.” Jughead says. He sounds puzzled, but his face had lit up at the mention of Lasagne. She gets the feeling that if she perseveres, she may one day get more than a few sentences out of him.

“Ok, great.” She pauses, considering her next question. Looking pointedly at Jughead, who meets her eyes this time, she starts. “And do you think… it might be… Do you think you should see a doctor?”

She didn’t want to overstep. She didn’t want to intrude. But like she said – she was involved now.

He shakes his head vigorously. “I’m fine,” he proclaims. She bites her lip, surveying his face. He shifts under her stare. _“Really,”_he emphasises, clearly uncomfortable.

She doesn’t have many options other than to take him at his word, so she accepts it.

They exchange goodbyes, and Betty heads out to her car.

JB, however, follows her out the door. “Listen. I wanted to say thank you. For driving me home... for inviting us to dinner. Just. _Thanks.”_

Betty feels a rush of affection for the girl, and brings her hand up to her shoulder. She says, quietly so that Jughead won’t hear, “Are you sure he doesn’t need to go to the hospital?”

JB shakes her head, “No. He seems fine. If it gets worse… or he’s not less disoriented… I mean, he doesn’t have health insurance, though.” 

Betty’s eyes go wide, and her indignation from earlier is back in full force. She tampers it down, and attempts to reassure JB. “That… that’s horrible. But, if he needs it, we’ll. We’ll figure something out, okay?”

JB nods, and then in a quick movement, hugs her. “Thank you, Betty.”

Betty hugs her back, before saying goodbye.

On the drive home, she has to actively stop herself from worrying about Jughead. What if he _did_ get worse?

She tries to think positively. She tries.

~~~

When she arrives home from work the next day, Kyle and Beth are sprawled on the lawn with paper, cardboard, paints and brushes between them and bright smiles on their faces. It’s that time just between summer and fall, so the sun is still shining in the early evening but the air is cool. It’s Betty’s favourite time of year.

Beth has a streak of purple along her nose, and Kyle’s entire left hand looks like he’s dunked it in the green paint tin, and Betty guesses there has been some kind of paint fight between them.

“Aunt Betty!” The twins say in unison. The effect is eerie, but Betty is used to their double-act.

“Hey nuggets, how are you both?”

She’d had a stressful and busy day, but she brushes it off in favor of smiling at her niece and nephew.

Beth answers first. “Good! Mom said if we play outside with our paints we can have dessert tonight!” the little red-haired girl beams at her, and Betty suppresses a laugh.

Obviously, Polly was nervous about having such clumsy kids with the addition of paint near any surface inside the house. She was their mother’s daughter, after all.

Kyle, with his concentration pinned on the cardboard he’s painting, nods and says, “I hope it’s chocolate. I hate fruit.”

“Well, I’m sure I can do something about that. You guys just be careful when you come back inside, okay? Wash the paint off your hands under the hose.”

“Okay.” They say together, again. That’s going to stop being cute at some point, Betty thinks.

When she’s inside, she finds Polly in the kitchen. Her long blonde hair is swept into a neat bun on top of her head, and she’s dressed in her typical summer dress and light cardigan. Betty always feels dressed down when next to her, in her usual washed denim and basic t-shirts.

She reminds herself to change into something nicer for dinner tonight, at least. JB had eased Betty’s worries that day, explaining that Jughead had improved greatly over night. It was a relief, and now Betty was more focused on the fact they were both going to be there. In her home. For dinner that night. Inexplicable nerves were racing through her, and she started cataloguing outfit ideas in her head.

_Not that there’s anyone to look nice for, or anything_.

“Hey Pol. How was your day?”

She turns her head over her shoulder to glance at Betty, but continues chopping tomatoes.

“Don’t get me started. Kyle got in trouble at school again. He_ kicked _another kid. There’s going to be this whole disciplinary thing.”

Betty feels her eyes widen. “Oh my God, Pol. What did he say about it? I just talked to him outside and he seemed fine.”

“He wouldn’t say anything except that it wasn’t his fault. I don’t know, Betty.”

Polly’s voice quivers, and she puts the knife down forcefully, turning to face Betty head on. 

“Sometimes… it’s just so _much_, you know. And I’m so grateful for you – you know that, right? But. Sometimes it’s like… maybe these things just keep happening because I’m not good enough.” She sucks in a breath, her blue eyes wide and watering and Betty _aches_ in her sympathy for her.

“No, Polly. You are. You are enough. You do _everything _for those children. Everything to keep them safe, and make them feel loved. Don’t do that, okay? You can’t blame yourself.”

She wraps her arms around her sister for a moment, holding her close before pulling back.

She knows how hard Polly has struggled with single motherhood. Their parents had been furious when Polly became pregnant by a one-night-stand, some guy she’d met in a bar. But Betty had stood by her, and eventually their parents had come around.

But the shame they had inflicted upon Polly, it had left wounds and insecurities that possibly could never be mended.

She remembers their intended dinner guests, concerned that she may need to cancel on them.

“This might be a bad time, but I invited JB and her brother over for dinner tonight. But I can absolutely tell them that tonight isn’t going to work, if you want. I’m sorry I didn’t check with you first.”

Polly shakes her head. “No, no. That will be fine. Honestly, I’ve spoken to Kyle and banned him from TV for the week, and I've done all I can for now about it,” she sighs, then brightens, “and it’ll be nice to meet some more people! Sometimes I feel like the only people I see are you, the kids and their teachers. I feel like I’m turning into a crazy recluse.”

Betty snorts indelicately, but thinks it best not to weigh in on that, considering her social life is not a whole lot better. There had been Veronica’s dinner party, a few weeks ago, but not really anything since. Truthfully, the bakery had become kind of all-consuming of her time.

“What can I do to help for dinner? I heard there was dessert to be expected.”

And so the sisters work in tandem, crafting a meal that resembles more fit for ten than six. Eventually the twins come inside with their paintings (and the paint on their persons only semi-washed off, Betty notes, bemoaning the non-detail oriented minds of children with concern for their _very _white, _very_ pristine walls).

Betty makes a mental note to talk to Kyle soon, and see if he’s not more willing to explain himself to someone that isn’t his mom.

Kyle and Beth are setting the table when the doorbell rings, and another wave of nerves overcomes her. Before she can think about that too much, she answers the door.

***

Jughead shifts in his combat boots. He’s uncomfortable. JB has forced him into clean jeans and a t-shirt that _‘at least has no stains on it_’. He realizes this is probably a good thing, but this entire ordeal is uncomfortable and the rigid feeling of the knees in his freshly washed jeans is like a constant physical reminder. Hadn’t he put himself out there enough for one week?

He doesn’t know why they’re here.

“Jug, could you please try to not like, scowl, all dinner?”

He turns his face to JB as they make their way up the path to Betty’s house. In response to her comment, he scowls at her, but he lifts the side of his mouth in a smile despite himself.

The shame and guilt he felt because JB found him passed out the day before was all-encompassing.

It hadn’t been intentional.

He’d just needed some _goddamned sleep. _He’d taken whatever sleep meds he could find in their medicine cabinet, and it turns out they did not mix well with the beer he had already opened, a sad and solitary celebration of his new job. Things had certainly ended the way celebrations for Jughead always seem to do; in near disaster.

Worse, Betty had been there. She had also immediately brought him food and attempted to look after him, which felt weird and embarrassed him to no end.

It was also not far from his mind that dinner this evening would be the third time that week alone, that Betty was providing food for him in some capacity.

Betty’s home is two stories, with a small concrete path that leads through the manicured lawns to the front steps, right in front of a shiny red door. It also happens to be directly next door to Fred Andrews’ residence, where Jughead had spent a significant portion of his childhood. If Jughead hadn’t already been well aware of the fact, this would have been a perfect reminder of the size of Riverdale.

When Betty answers the door, she has a blinding smile on her face, and it throws Jughead off. He doesn’t know how to take her. She’s just so… bright. She’s clad in soft pink and the warm glow of the outdoor light on her blond head gives her a halo effect. If he wasn’t so completely out of his comfort zone, he probably would have made a mocking remark about it.

Instead he just kind of stands there and gapes, a little.

“JB! Jughead! Come inside.”

Automatically Jughead is made aware of his discomfort, once again, when he realizes he’s expected to remove his shoes. He does so, steadfastly ignoring that his socks are full of holes and his big toe is poking completely out of one of them, peeking out and dragging along their perfect cream carpet and polished wooden floors.

The house is spotless, a fact that surprises him when he’s introduced to two small children, each with dark red hair, alabaster skin and bright green eyes. The girl, Beth, hides behind her mother when he says hi to her, her cheeks going a shade of red to almost match her hair.

Polly and Betty share amused glances, so Jughead figures he probably hasn’t done anything wrong. The young boy, Kyle, shoves his hand into Jughead’s and says, “a pleasure to meet you.” With the kind of forced politeness that was so unfamiliar to anything Jughead was used to. Seeing it from someone who can’t be any older than 8 was bizarre.

JB adapts to the house, like she adapts anywhere, and Jughead is left feeling like a spare tire.

He bites through it, he attempts to make small talk, and when they’re all seated for dinner, he tries to act like he ever actually sits down at a set dining table for a meal.

“So, Jug-head, what do you do?” Polly asks, enunciating his name like it fits strangely in her mouth.

The question is harmless enough. But he can hear the intention laced within it, he _knows _what it means. Polly is asking him who he is in the world.

“I, uh. I bartend, sometimes. For the Whyte Wyrm.” And there it is, widened eyes, carefully but not-quite concealed disdained expression. He knows that Betty is aware that JB used to work there. He wonders if she shares her sister’s obvious opinion of the establishment.

He doesn’t look at her.

“For now, anyway,” JB adds, “Jug was just hired at Andrews Construction yesterday!” There’s pride in her voice, but it’s defensive, too.

God, he needed a smoke.

They make their way through dinner, with the stilted, generic conversation that seems perfunctory for this kind of thing. He has a distinct desire to break something, just to cut through the monotony.

After dessert, Polly excuses herself and the children. JB says something about needing the bathroom, and then it’s just him and Betty.

She’s smiling at him warmly, from her seat beside him at the table, apparently relaxed around him.

(Which, well, that was the antithesis of how he felt around her.)

She raises her wine glass to her lips, draining the last of it. His eyes traced her neck before glancing away.

“You seem like you’re better than you were yesterday afternoon.”

It’s phrased as a statement, but he knows it’s a question. “Yeah. I am. I… I really didn’t mean for that to happen. It was an accident.”

Her eyes are on his, and she leans her elbow forward onto the table, so that she’s turned towards him. “I know,” she says.

He must give her a look that says _how could you possibly know that,_ because she seems to feel the need to explain herself.

“I mean… it didn’t seem like it was planned.” There’s a pregnant pause, and she’s obviously considering saying something but is afraid of his reaction. She has a face that tells everything, and he briefly wonders whether he could ever get her to play poker with him.

Then she drags a hand down her neck, absentmindedly pressing her fingertips into pressure points and easing the tension there. He thinks if he ever played poker with her and she did things like that, he’d be so distracted he’d probably lose despite her lack of poker face.

_Stop being pathetic._

“Do you… you struggle with sleep?” she asks him, although the answer is obvious, so he just nods. He wonders where she’s going with this.

She nods, apparently unaware that she’s mirrored him, before looking over her shoulder at the entry to the dining room.

Hoping someone else is returning or checking that they aren’t?

“I – I used to struggle with insomnia. Still do, sometimes. I know what it’s like. You should know that I don’t... I couldn’t… judge you for anything that I saw.”

He’s entirely unprepared for her admission, and he opens his mouth to speak before he even knows what to say. Nothing in the way of words form, so he closes it again.

At that moment, JB returns, announcing that they should head home because they all have to be up early the next day. Remembering the 4 a.m starts, Jughead realizes Betty must get up _even earlier_ than him or JB.

They say their goodbyes, JB and Betty hug, and he’s about to start walking back down the path when Betty’s arms are around him – hugging him goodbye, too. The moment is over before he can process it, and he’s left feeling off-balance.

The thing is, people don’t touch him. Apart from JB, the closest he ever gets to people is a handshake. His father hugs him, sometimes, but it’s certainly not a regular thing.

In the last 11 months, he could count the people who have hugged him on three fingers. And Betty was one of them.

And the five years before that? Touch was dangerous, in prison. It was a threat, or a violation, or intimidation. Mostly, though, it was absent.

The soft, casual embrace she’d given him – like it was nothing, like being close to him wasn’t frightening or strange – undoes him and holds him together, and when he gets home, he lies there on the floor of his room staring at the ceiling, recalling the moment again and again.

In the moments in which he’s not re-playing her arms wrapping around him, so quick, so friendly, so much _more_ than she’d intended it to be, he’s thinking about her forthright confession to him. 

He’s trying to figure out why she would tell him something like that, something so personal. They barely knew each other. He adds up all the things he’d learned from being near her today and yesterday, from what JB had told him, and he realizes that it was kindness. She was being kind. She knew he was embarrassed about her having seen him like that, so she shared something delicate about herself.

For the first time in who knows how long, Jughead doesn’t need to write out his dreadful memories until the early hours of the morning before he’s exhausted enough to close his eyes. He closes them and, as easily as though it were usual for him, sleep comes.

***

As the weeks go by, Betty becomes increasingly aware that she is growing fond (and the _‘growing’_ is more a descriptor plucked from her well of self-denial than anything else. _Is_ fond) of a certain brooding, beanie-wearing brother of her co-worker.

It helps to think of him like that, in epithets, not as a whole person, because she can probably (maybe) dismiss fragments of him. But the sum of his parts intrigues her more with each passing day, and she has to actively stop herself from throwing herself headfirst into those feelings.

He’s been frequenting the bakery almost every day since they met.

Apparently, Fred Andrews had hired Jughead, but there was no actual work for him for at least another week.

This had lead to him commandeering a booth in the corner of her bakery, day after day, typing away at his laptop for hours as she brought him coffee and most recently, the results of her trials with a new recipe.

With JB now confident in managing the front counter, and her staff team working like clockwork in the kitchen, Betty found she had time in the afternoons for experimentation.

She drew inspiration in her baking from the things around her – she always had. It was an emotional and creative outlet that released her anxieties and helped her work through, tangibly, those things inside of her she struggles with addressing head on.

She’d been working on perfecting her newest creation over the last four days, and finally, finally she had reached the consistency she’d been aiming for.

The layer cake is a dark, molten sponge, dripping with the taste of bitter coffee and sticky maple syrup. The filling is infused with hints of bourbon, wrapped in layers of vanilla frosting and topped with toasted walnuts and pistachios.

She’s tried to deny it, her growing feelings, but really, the truth is staring right at her – in the form of a cake.

There’s no denying who had inspired this one.

She cuts into a slice, presenting it on a plate. On a whim, she cuts one for herself too.

When she slides a plate and small dessert fork across the table to Jughead, he’s deep in concentration, reading something on his computer. He startles, looking up at her with a frown, one that softens when he sees her.

It makes something raw and unbridled open in her chest.

“This looks slightly different than the one from yesterday,” he says, gesturing to the cake now directly in front of him.

She smiles. He noticed.

“I’ve perfected the recipe. I think. I changed the topping and filling a little, but the premise of maple coffee cake is still there.”

He nods, lifting a loaded forkful to his mouth. She looks away, focusing on her own slice.

She enjoys these moments of her day with him. He’s not very talkative, not like JB, but he’s always grateful for her proffered food and willing to offer an opinion on it.

He’s finished by the time she has even gotten halfway through her own. “How the fuck do you do it? I don’t think I’m ever going to enjoy any other cake again. Seriously.”

She shrugs, blushing a little. She was used to praise for her work, but he was different.

“It’s the work of good ingredients, the right equipment, and trial and error.” She’s eager to turn the conversation away from her, so she doesn’t let him respond before speaking again. “You looked deep in thought when I came over. What’s so interesting?”

She’s asked him what he writes about before, of course. He had simply replied,_ “My memoirs,”_ in a joking tone, and she couldn’t quite figure out whether it _was_ a joke or not.

“Nothing,” he answers too quickly and, well, she gets it. He doesn’t have to tell her.

She wishes he would, though. Fiddling with her plate, she concedes, “Okay.”

He looks between her and his laptop, seeming to consider something. “I’m editing.”

It’s an admission, but it doesn’t seem like a complete sentence. So she waits.

“My…” he shakes his head, “... novel. Which sounds stupid, I know.”

“What sounds stupid?”

“That... _I’m_ writing a novel.”

Self-deprecation. It’s something she’s worn well over the years. It’s familiar. 

“... Why?”

He doesn’t reply, just kind of _looks_ at her incredulously, and she wants to reach out, wants to say, _“hey, it’s okay to want things.”_ But she’s afraid it will be received with the kind of cutting remarks that he makes often, trying to sand down her earnest optimism, turn it into something asinine.

And it’s nothing really, it’s not important, and he owes her nothing. But it reminds her of Mark, how he used to tease her when she would talk about politics, how it was never made overt but it had always sounded like _what do you know about it, silly little girl._

She’s reminded that he doesn’t know her. She knows what she looks like from the outside. She’s mildly successful professionally, she has safety and security and doesn’t have to worry about things like _if I get sick, can I afford healthcare?_ But he doesn’t know that she’s had to struggle and fight with, maybe not the same demons, but demons all the same.

Insomnia. Depression. Grief. Fear. Rage. The crevices of her that she holds dearly, because she knows she can overcome them now. But he doesn’t know about the days where she had to put things like “drink water” and “brush your teeth” on her to do lists, he doesn’t know that sometimes, when the urge to gouge her palms with too-blunt nails gets too much, she has to plunge them wrist deep into ice water.

He doesn’t _know._ She can’t be hurt by it.

She sighs heavily, making to get up. It’s not personal, and this attitude he possesses is not about her, but his own perspective of himself.

She’s spent enough time working with her therapist on what parts of other’s actions are about her, and what actions are about them.

But, still. She’s trustworthy. She’s opened up to him, somewhat. She’s starting to think maybe his constant deflection of her questions _is_ actually about her. Like maybe she’s annoying him.

Which is a thought too unbearable to dismiss.

So when she gets up to leave, and a hand snakes around her wrist to stop her, she feels a jolt cross through her so fast that it whips her neck up abruptly. She meets his eyes, and they are staring right through her.

“You really don’t think it’s stupid?”

His voice is small.

And without even meaning to, he’s reassured her. He’s pushed away those negative reminders and she thinks maybe, _maybe_ he doesn’t think of her as merely fragments of a perfect façade. Like so many others have.

“Of course not. I think that’s amazing,” she exclaims honestly, “what’s it about?”

She pushes her luck. It works.

“It’s, um, about a guy I knew,” he looks down at his laptop screen, “in prison.”

She feels cold and hot at the same time, uncertain and her words stolen from her.

Something is working behind the confines of his face, some kind of terrible thought.

“He… he died. I’m trying to, uh. To figure out why, sort of.”

He sighs, and it’s tortured, and she feels that they are both somewhere else, far away from a booth in her little insignificant bakery.

“He was my cellmate, and I just. I just want to tell his story.”

She swallows heavily, bringing a hand to cover his across the table. Her fingers brush his knuckles, in what she hopes is a soothing gesture. “Wow. That’s horrible, and… and incredible, Jughead. That you’re writing about it. It sounds important.”

He stares at her for a long while, and she stares right back. She has the vague thought that it should be uncomfortable, this kind of eye contact, this kind of silence, between near strangers. But, it’s not. It just… isn’t.

The moment stretches and then snaps, as someone calls from behind the counter for Betty’s help with something.

She smiles apologetically at Jughead, but he’s looking back at his laptop, typing again.

She breaks away from the moment and it feels like something has shifted, but she’s too scared to examine it just yet.

~~~

Veronica glides through the halls of her Pembrooke luxury apartment, a relaxed hand gesturing to a new painting she’s added to her collection, the other hand casually wrapped around the stem of a wine glass, half filled. “I told the installers to be careful, but they _still_ scratched the wall, see here,” she says, while she points at a small scuff mark on the wall, “anyway, I wish Archie had been available to install it but we’ve both been simply overrun with paperwork at Andrews Construction.”

Betty tries to understand the attraction of the painting that Veronica’s father has sent her from his home in Manhattan, but she just can’t. It’s all sharp-edged blocks and shapes and the colors hurt her eyes.

But Veronica trusts her father’s taste implicitly, and truthfully Betty doesn’t know anything about art. She doesn’t think it really matches any of Archie and Veronica’s décor, though. She wonders if maybe Veronica is pretending she likes it. Because it’s her father’s, and he gave it to her, and from what Betty can understand, their relationship is complicated.

“It’s nice, V.”

She sips from her own glass of wine distractedly, settling down on Veronica’s plush off-white couch, folding into the corner.

Veronica drops beside her, her deep brown eyes looking like they’re trying to solve some intense mystery.

“Okay, girl, what is it? You’ve been all…” she flips her hand over Betty’s person in a wide gesture, “distracted and one-word responses tonight. What is _up_?”

Betty has not had a lot of friends before. She spent most of her high school years befriending everyone, in a polite acquaintance sort of way, but she’s never had a true friend that she could turn to.

When she needed to talk about boys, when she was younger, or vent about her ex-husband when was older, it was always Polly who she vented to. But that dynamic has shifted now that their lives were more intertwined, and any man in Betty’s life would inevitably have to become part of Kyle and Beth’s lives.

This made her nervous, because Polly was notoriously protective of her children. And she was more like their mother than Betty, in her worldview.

She _also_may have had some unkind words to say about Jughead, after he had left their house after dinner a few weeks ago.

Veronica has made it clear she’s no fan of the Jones family, and Betty knows there’s some significant history there. But she needs to talk about this, to someone. And her only other option would be JB, which… no. Not happening.

“It’s nothing really. I’m just tired.”

Veronica arches an exquisitely groomed eyebrow at her, and Betty knows hiding anything from the girl is a doomed effort. “Well, I mean. Look, the thing is, I… know you don’t really like him, but I think… It’s possible I’m feeling... something. For Jughead.”

There’s a pregnant pause, where something dark and vicious passes over Veronica’s face, and she grimaces.

Placing her wine glass on the table beside her, she turns back to Betty. The grimace is still there. “That is _not_ a good idea, B. Seriously. He’s bad news. Like, think _Dallas Winston_ bad.” The Outsiders reference is not lost on Betty, and very typical of Veronica and her way of relating to the world.

Betty feels instantly defensive, but tries to keep her tone even. She respects Veronica’s opinion, after all. “Archie hired him, so he can’t be all that bad. Do you even know him, V?”

Veronica had also originally dissuaded Betty from hiring JB, in the first rounds of interviews, until Betty eventually ignored the advice and hired her based off of instinct (and necessity). In that instance, Betty’s judgment had trumped Veronica’s. Couldn’t it also be the same with Jughead?

She says none of this, of course. She really doesn’t want to argue.

“Archie is very forgiving, and there’s a lot of ancient history between him and Jughead that I think makes him sentimental. It clouds his judgment. But you weren’t there, Betty, you don’t know what it was like back then. In high school. In Riverdale. The Serpents…” she trails off, and it frustrates Betty. They’re not in high school anymore, and if she’s going to be warned off someone, she’d like a complete explanation.

“So tell me, then. What was it like?”

“It was… I had just moved to Riverdale, and things with my dad were crazy, but I met Archie and we fell into things pretty quickly. Back then, him and Jughead were best friends. Then...” she closes her eyes, shaking her head in a small movement, before carrying on. “Then Fred was shot. And everything changed.” Betty gasps unintentionally, hand moving to cover her mouth. She didn’t know Archie’s dad had been shot, and she feels a wave of sympathy for both men. 

“Everyone thought it was the Serpents who were responsible. There was bad blood between Archie and Jughead’s dads, and after the shooting … I mean, Archie was angry. Obviously. But Jughead just kept defending the Serpents, and eventually it got too much. Jughead moved to Southside High, and when we saw him again he had _joined_ them. The people supposedly responsible for shooting Archie’s dad.”

Betty frowns, interjecting, “_Was_ it the Serpents, though?”

Veronica claps her hands together, volume in her voice rising, “That’s not the point, Betty!”

She sighs softly, trying to tread carefully. “But, V, this was like… over a decade ago. And if Archie’s let it go… and if Jughead was right and the Serpents _weren’t_ responsible…”

“We still thought they were! And Jughead’s loyalty should have been to Archie. You didn’t. You didn’t _see_ Archie after it, he was _broken_, and Jughead just… left him. And it’s not just that, either. You know he was in prison, right?”

Betty fights every single nerve in her body that is willing her to spar back with, _’well, so was your father.’_ Because Betty had grown up in New York, and she had read the papers, and she knew exactly the kind of shady dealings the Lodges had been involved in.

But it wasn’t Veronica’s fault, and she was clearly protective of Archie. And Betty can understand that.

“Of course I know that. But I don’t think it’s fair to judge him for something I wasn’t there for, that happened so long ago… and, he. I don’t know, we get along.” She can’t explain herself further, it’s so new and it’s hardly anything at this point, and trying to defend a relationship that isn’t even happening yet (if it even ever will) is _exhausting._

“Do you even know why he was sent to prison?” Veronica asks. Her tone is accusing, and Betty feels deflated. She doesn’t want her friend to think badly of her. She doesn’t want to fight about this.

But what had sent Jughead to prison was something not even JB had shared with her, and she knew instinctively that finding out from anyone other than him would be a violation.

“I don’t. And I don’t want to know.” She holds her hand up when Veronica opens her mouth, “Seriously, V. You can be angry at him for… abandoning Archie, if that’s what you feel happened. But as far as… as why he was in prison, that’s Jughead’s business, and if he hasn’t told me, it’s none of mine. Okay?”

Veronica frowns deeply, “I think that’s a mistake.”

“I don’t care. Please. Just respect me on this.”

Veronica looks like she wants to argue, eyes searching Betty’s face, but she eventually nods, just once. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, okay?” she says, tone soft.

And it’s sweet, really, because Veronica might be slightly over-protective, loyal to a fault, and at times judgmental -- but she cares, and it comes from a good place, and Betty can’t begrudge her that.

“I always am.”

She senses the conversation about Jughead has come to a close, and for that she’s glad.

She did want to have a normal conversation about him, to talk about the moments they’ve shared – to over analyze every second and get some perspective on whether or not there’s a chance for her there.

But if all she can get out of Veronica is bad history and semi-patronizing warnings, she’d rather not talk about it at all.

In the end, the conversation progresses to lighter things, and eventually Kevin joins them for their Friday night drinks, and they all settle in to binge-watch a new Netflix drama, and it’s nice. Archie comes home late, three sheets to the wind, and Kevin and Betty escape from his clumsy attempts at drunken affection, laughing as they share an Uber to their respective homes.

She tries to shake the uneasy feeling that the people in her life she’s closest to seem to disagree with the way she might feel for Jughead. But she’s never been very good at dismissing other people’s opinions, especially ones that are about her.

And if it makes her a little more cautious around Jughead, then maybe that’s for the best, anyway.

~~~

It’s been a week, working for Andrews Construction. A week of hauling timber, and trying to come to terms with the fragile amity that seems to have settled between him and Archie.

There seems to be no bad blood at all, between them, and it contradicts everything Jughead had expected.

It was a slow transition into his new job, and in the meantime he had left his bartending for the Wyrm behind. The Serpents understood. He had given five years of his life for them. He was determined he wouldn’t give up anymore.

He would always be a member, and they would always be his family, but he had to put distance there or he’d end up right where he started.

Right where his father is.

Between leaving the Wyrm and starting at Andrews’, he had filled the time with writing. 

And _Betty._

He’d found the atmosphere of her bakery a gentle retreat, a place where he could pull his focus inward and try to grapple with the story he wants to tell. The story that haunts him and cages him all over again and, when he really looks at it, could have been about him. It sort of still is.

He usually couldn’t write much unless he was by Sweetwater River, the wide open space and timelessness of the river flowing keeping him tethered to the present and disrupting the will of his mind that wants to take him back there, back to prison.

He’s found the same sensation in a booth, at Cooper’s, where an engaging blonde sometimes brings him provisions and conversation.

He tries not to think too carefully about what that means.

He’s packing up his things so that he can pick JB up from work when Archie finds him in their work trailer.

“Hey, Jug. You wanna grab a bite?”

Jughead straightens up from where he was bending over his work bag, running a hand across the back of his neck. “Nah, man. I gotta pick up JB.”

Archie shrugs, “Maybe tomorrow night then?”

Jughead’s guarded, not really wanting to extend their acquaintance beyond a working relationship at this point. Archie, however, is picking away at his resolve, and has been inviting him out after work almost every day that week. He can’t think of a reason to say no quickly enough.

“Yeah. Um, yeah. Sure.”

Archie’s face lights up in a boyish grin, and it’s so reminiscent of his teenage self that Jughead feels a tug of violent remorse deep in the pit of his stomach.

“Great! I’ll see you tomorrow, dude!”

As Jughead is leaving the worksite, his phone vibrates, indicating a text message. It’s JB.

_Betty is driving me home!_

Jughead rolls his eyes. He hopes Archie doesn’t somehow find that out and feel like Jughead blew him off.

_K. See you at home._

He replies, before pulling out of the construction site that would one day soon become a luxury housing development.

When he arrives home, the sun is beginning to set. He hears chatting and laughter through the front door before he opens it, so he braces himself for social interaction.

Betty and JB are on the couch, open pizza boxes spread on the coffee table and Parks and Recreation playing on the TV.

“Hey Jug!” JB smiles at him, and he nods in her direction, and then nods at Betty, too. She smiles shyly and greets him in her soft voice, pointing to plates next to the pizza boxes and the spot next to her on the couch, inviting him to join them.

His muscles ache from the manual labor of the day, and truthfully, sinking into the couch and indulging in pizza sounds like his own personal version of heaven. In no time at all, he’s lounging across one third of their shitty old couch, a pizza slice dangling inelegantly from his mouth and eyes trained to the TV.

The three of them eat in companionable silence, with sporadic bursts of laughter at the antics of the Pawnee Parks Department. Jughead is acutely aware of Betty next to him, whose hair – usually pulled into a tight ponytail, is falling loose around her shoulders. He steals glances at her when she laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corners and her whole face lighting up with it.

It calms something deep within him, creeping over him lazily like a warm summer’s day.

It scares the shit out of him.

He’d told her about his writing. About Joaquin.

As soon as he had, he’d regretted it. Her reaction had admittedly been the opposite of what he’d expected, but he still berated himself for saying anything at all. It’s not like anything would ever come of what he was writing. He was writing it because he had to, because when he didn’t everything in his head got worse and there was no reprieve. But he knew any real, tangible career in writing was hopeless, and absurd. And it kind of feels like he only has one story in him, anyway.

But she has a face that makes him want to tell her things. The way she looks at him, sometimes. It was unlike anything he’d ever been graced with. Her face was open and her eyes were kind and when she asked him questions and he dismissed them, that face would fall and a million dark thoughts seemed to cross through her mind. And all it took was that, the idea that he’d disappointed her or made her feel badly, and he was spilling his guts.

Or, at least, to the extent to which Jughead ever actually spilled his guts. Which is to say, never, and not at all.

He attempts to keep his attention on the television, but Betty is very distracting. Every now and then, she would fidget, and her shoulder would bump his or strands of her hair would tickle his arm. And just like her hug after dinner almost a month ago, it was nothing, but it felt like everything.

When it comes time for Betty to head home, he almost sighs in relief. He’s in a weird state of paradox with her, where she makes him unbearably anxious and relaxed all at once. It’s confusing and messy, and he’s too tired to make sense of it.

She hugs him again, before she leaves, and the impact of it has not lessened since the first time. He still reacts uneasily, patting her on the back with just a little too much vigor.

He walks her out to her car, not really knowing why but doing it anyway. JB shoots him a confused look, which he pointedly ignores.

He opens her car door for her, and it’s awkward, because she’d been reaching for the handle and he kind of dove in there, so instead of it being a polite gesture, it was weird.

_Fuck._

Her eyes are darting around them, like she’s trying to look anywhere but him, and there’s a high flush to her cheeks.

“Drive safe, okay?” he says, attempting some semblance of normalcy.

“Yeah, you too!” she responds, and then a look of complete horror crosses over her features, and she quickly corrects herself. “I mean – obviously you’re not driving, I meant, uh. Goodnight.”

He chuckles softly, under his breath, eyes piercing into hers while his stomach does somersaults.

“Yeah, I knew what you meant. Goodnight, Betty.”

She smiles, the sides of her mouth turning downward in an almost-grimace, before getting into the car. He watches her drive away and thinks;

_You’re completely screwed._


	2. until you can wait no more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things stop and start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to those of you who left comments on the previous chapter. I felt very inspired this morning to post ASAP!
> 
> no new warnings for this chapter!

_‘So long to the  
The days you come to know  
So you had to  
To get there on your own’ _– Deerhunter

~~~

Betty’s alarm rips through her slumber and jolts her into consciousness at 3 a.m Saturday morning, and for the first time in a long time, she has to suppress the urge to slam a hand on the ‘snooze’ function.

Last night had been a lot to deal with.

First, there had been the close proximity she had shared with Jughead on his couch for most of the evening. Second, there had been the mortifying exit which will now forever be dubbed representative of ‘Why Betty Cooper Can’t Get A Date’.

Lastly, which was directly correlated to the second point, was that she had spent almost the entire night staring at the ceiling and asking the universe to please erase that humiliating moment from existence.

She’d said _you too._ As if it weren’t obvious enough that Jughead makes her lose any and all of her executive thought functions, she had to go and put up a glaring neon sign that read ‘I like you a stupid amount’.

She’d say she feels about 17 years old, but her relationship with Mark had never had any of this apprehension or anxiety. It just _was._ He had asked her to senior prom, she had said yes, and they had been together from then until their divorce. She had loved him, certainly, but it was never an all-consuming, butterflies in your stomach, everything reminds me of you kind of love. Not even at the beginning.

How strange that it was now, on the other side of 30, that she was experiencing what can only be described as a quintessentially adolescent emotion.

Thankfully he’d played off her mortification coolly, bypassing it as though it was of no consequence, but then again, she found it difficult to get a read on him at the best of times.

With a dramatic sigh, she forces herself out of bed and into her shower. Saturdays are usually their busiest day, and she can’t afford to be late.

The morning passes in a blur, both due to her weary state and the hectic nature of Saturday mornings in a bakery.

Thankfully, it isn’t until 3 p.m, exactly 12 hours since she had woken, that she has a moment to spare to think about the previous evening. She wishes there were a statute of limitations on her ability to feel embarrassment over certain situations, but previous experience indicates that that is not the case. She will probably be reliving her foot-in-mouth moment on her deathbed.

Not to be melodramatic, or anything.

Betty and some of her staff are enjoying an afternoon break while the rush dies down, sitting around a booth and drinking cups of coffee and tea and, in JB’s case, some kind of weird turmeric latte that she insisted they put on the menu after reading about the health benefits online.

Truthfully, it had been a popular addition with the early-20s crowd, and Betty respected JB’s proactive attitude and the way she contributed her opinion on how things run. It was exactly the kind of input Betty needed, and exactly the reason she believed JB was destined for greater things.

The girl in question was talking animatedly in hushed tones with Amy, a young black girl with dark green hair and a myriad of facial piercings, from Centreville. She had been one of the few people with significant experience and qualifications that Betty had hired.

She catches snippets of their conversation, and hides her smile behind her coffee cup. JB had told Betty all about her crush last night, before Jughead had arrived home, and it sounds like Amy might just reciprocate those feelings.

She’s unintentionally eavesdropping on their plans to see a movie that evening when her phone begins vibrating wildly in her coat pocket.

When she checks the ID, it’s Veronica. Setting her coffee aside and getting up to take the call in the kitchen, she answers.

“Hey, V. What’s going on?”

It was a little unusual to hear from her during the day, although she supposes it is technically the weekend.

“Betty! Please, please,_ please_ say you can come out to dinner with us tonight?”

Her tone is desperate and begging, which is both out of character for Veronica and a little odd, because it’s not like Betty would really say no.

“Uh, sure. With you and Archie? That should be fine.”

There’s a beat, before Veronica responds.

“… And Jughead.”

“What? Why?”

Her heart rate quickens, and Veronica sighs deeply.

“Archie is trying to repair their friendship, and has made me promise to do the same. So, we’re all having dinner tonight. But I don’t think I can be as magnanimous as Archie wants me to be without you there. _Please,_ Betty. You’re like the good angel on my shoulder.”

Betty makes a disbelieving sound. “Wasn’t it you who wanted me to spend _less_ time with Jughead?” she says quietly into the phone, not wanting to be overheard.

“Yes. No,” Veronica pauses. “I just don’t know, Betty. Why don’t we look at this as an opportunity for me to… be open minded about it.”

She can tell that it took a_ lot_ for Veronica to say that, and she’s almost proud of her.

“Okay. Okay, yes. Dinner. Tonight. Where are we going?”

Hours later, she finds herself outside Giovanni’s, the only Italian restaurant in Riverdale. She’s running a little late, having spent too long trying to decide what to wear. Veronica had indicated for a_ ‘dressy casual’ _wardrobe, which is an oxymoron, and described almost nothing Betty owned.

She pulled self-consciously at the fabric of her navy wrap dress, the same she wore to Kyle and Beth’s christening. She’d flatly refused to put on high heels, and instead chosen a pair of black ankle boots that she truly can’t even remember buying. They fit, and they go with the dress, so she considered that a win.

She braced herself, and entered the restaurant, eyes searching the crowded tables for Archie’s vibrant red hair.

She spotted them before they notice her, and she takes a final steadying breath before approaching them. Jughead is dressed in his usual garb, and she feels a flicker of affection about it, which she quickly tampers down.

They don’t notice her at first, seemingly involved in their conversation. Archie is seated opposite Jughead, with Veronica on his right. Veronica is staring pointedly at her menu, while Archie leans forward and talks enthusiastically. Jughead is smiling casually, which makes Betty’s breath hitch.

Three pairs of eyes turn her way when she meets them, and Veronica graciously places her menu down.

“Betty!” Veronica’s out of her seat in seconds, wrapping her up in a hug. Surreptitiously, she whispers,_ “Thank God you’re here!”_ before releasing her.

Betty smiles shyly at Jughead, taking the seat next to him. “Hey, I’m sorry I’m a little late. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

Archie grins broadly. “Not at all! We waited for you before we ordered though, we were thinking about sharing some pizzas.”

“That sounds good.”

They spend a good amount of time trying to decide on what kind of pizza to choose – Veronica advocating for something covered in artichoke hearts and asparagus spears. Jughead glared at her in horror.

Betty, who is adventurous when it comes to food after her years at culinary school and working in restaurants, suggests a compromise, which sees Betty and Veronica sharing the artichoke pizza and Archie and Jughead sharing a more traditional pepperoni. The wine flows, and when their food is almost finished they are more or less settled into an easy conversation.

Things head south, virtually in the space of a minute. Betty asks, “So, Jughead, Archie, you guys are working on that new housing development just outside of town, right? How is that going?”

“Good, so far. This week has been mostly breaking ground and working logistics, though,” Archie responds.

Jughead swallows down a mouthful of pizza, and then adds in his dry tone, “Yeah, truly riveting stuff.”

Having grown accustomed to his humor, she chuckles softly, but Veronica huffs across from her.

She looks over at her, trying to catch her eye, but she’s glowering at Jughead. This can’t be good.

“One would think you’d be more grateful,” she says snidely, shaking her head at Jughead.

Archie turns to her._ “Ronnie,” _he whispers, and in response Veronica slams a hand on the table.

“No, Archie. I’m trying, I really am. But…” Something flashes behind her eyes, and her gaze stays pointed on Jughead, who has remained motionless and stoic since Veronica began speaking. “But, I find you incredibly cavalier. Archie gave you a job, even though you are the last person someone would describe as employable. Even though you’ve shown yourself to be so disloyal to him. How can you be so _arrogant?_”

“Veronica!” Betty interjects, entirely against her will. Immediately her eyes snap down to her plate. They rise again when Veronica scoffs, throwing her napkin from her lap to the table. She stands quickly, rushing to the exit. Archie hushes an apology to Jughead, and follows after her.

Neither of them says anything. Jughead lets out a deep sigh, leaning his elbows on the table and resting his head in his hands. Instinctively, she reaches out.

When her hand rests gently on his shoulder, he flinches, but then relaxes into it, finally turning his eyes to her.

He’s so guarded, she can’t read his expression.

“Well, I guess that was a long time coming,” he jokes, but his tone is devoid of amusement. It’s flat, cold.

Betty bites her lip. “I don’t think she…”

“She meant it, trust me,” Jughead cuts her off. His eyes leave her to stare down at the table, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t really blame her.”

There’s a pull at her gut, something visceral that is clawing at her to offer him every ounce of comfort she has.

“Jughead, you weren’t… you didn’t do anything wrong.” She feels guilty, and doesn’t want to choose sides. But in all honesty, the grudge Veronica seemed to be clinging to was baffling to Betty. “She misunderstood you, and lashed out.”

He shrugs, tucking his chin down further.

She tries to catch the eye of their server, and asks for the bill. Jughead tries to offer his card to help pay and she has to perform some serious conversational gymnastics to get him to concede. When that’s been dealt to, she turns to him with apprehension.

He looks so downtrodden, and he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be feeling the burden of Veronica’s resentment, or what Betty suspects are also prejudices.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

He nods, and she places a hand on his arm again, squeezing in a gesture of comfort. He didn’t flinch this time.

She picks up Veronica’s bag and Archie’s coat, bracing herself for what was sure to be an awkward encounter. But she’s determined to help them through it, certain that in time, they’ll work it out.

Hopefully.

Outside, Veronica is in a standoff with Archie, arms crossed over her chest as Archie has his hands on her shoulders, head bent so that he’s eye level, imploring some unheard information earnestly to her. Whatever he’s saying, she loosens at it, and it’s then that she glances to the side to see Betty and Jughead.

She purses her lips, approaching them with careful footsteps. She looks resigned, and takes a breath before turning to Jughead, addressing him directly.

“I’m sorry for going off on you. It wasn’t fair.” Her voice is clipped, but Betty can see her thawing beneath the veneer and knows the apology is genuine, even if Veronica herself doesn’t know it completely yet.

Jughead shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, head bent down and looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

“It-- I don’t…” He sighs. “I don’t know if I can explain how things happened back then, or why. There was so much going on, and I-- But I… I get why you were angry.”

She nods, relaxing infinitesimally. There’s a pause that seems to drag on for an extended period of time, but it can’t have been longer than half a minute. Eventually, Veronica responds.

“Okay, Jughead.” His name sounds like a question on her tongue, like he’s a new piece of information that she doesn’t know how to process just yet. “Ceasefire?”

“I don’t remember going into combat, actually.” He smirks. “But, yes.”

Veronica smiles, tentatively, and then turns a predatory gaze on Betty, one eyebrow arching in her direction. Betty fights everything in her not to blush, knowing _exactly_ what she’s thinking. She stares directly back, trying to telepathically communicate for her to _not make anything obvious,_ still reeling from her embarrassing moment from last night and really not needing any more to be added to her repertoire.

After passing off Archie and Veronica’s belongings, and saying their goodnights, Betty and Jughead find themselves alone on the footpath, beneath the warm glow of a streetlamp. The noise from inside the restaurant is a gentle hum, but the rest of the night is quiet. The streets are almost empty, and even after almost a year of living in Riverdale, Betty finds the lack of people unfamiliar. It offers her a welcome peace, one she never found in the city, despite living there all her life.

He rubs at the back of his neck, eyes assessing her. She feels the trace of his stare and it sticks the hair on the back of her neck on end.

“Do you wanna do something?” he asks, unexpectedly.

Caught off-guard, she falters, her breath quickening. “Sure. What did you have in mind?”

He looks nervous, and for the first time in their acquaintance he just seems very open, and it thrills her, shocks of heat flaring along her spine.

“Have you ever been to the river at night?”

She shakes her head. “No, I haven’t.”

“We could… we could go for a walk, if you want. It’s really – it’s really beautiful, at night.”

She feels_ lost _for him, right then, in that moment, and there’s no way she could ever answer in anything other than the affirmative.

~~~

When she’s in his car, she’s struck by a scent that is just so completely him it’s almost overwhelming. Smoke, leather, sandalwood and pine, envelope her senses and cloud her every thought.

“What band is this?” she asks, mostly just for something to say, indicating to the radio which is playing some unknown tune.

His brows furrow. “I’m not sure of their name, I haven’t looked at the track list in a while. This is JB’s playlist, it’s the only music I have in the car so it’s always playing on repeat.”

“Isn’t that annoying? Listening to the same songs over and over?”

“No, not really. Okay… kind of. But when JB makes you a playlist, you have to listen to it on repeat and develop an opinion on every song, otherwise she’ll be offended.” He turns to her briefly, grinning with a private joke. “There are quizzes involved.”

Betty laughs. “I’d believe that. Okay, so then, what’s your opinion on this song?”

He thinks for a moment, but his answer is prepared so she knows he_ actually does_ the musical homework that JB sets for him. “It’s… melancholic, and more than a little nostalgic. Its focus is lyrical, but you don’t know it at first, because the lyrics are brief and there’s so much instrumental.” He shrugs. “I like it.”

She listens more attentively to it as it finishes playing, and when the next song starts up, she turns to him and says, “I like it, too.”

He smiles, turning to face her before turning back to the road, fingers tapping a rhythm on the steering wheel.

When they arrive at Sweetwater, the surrounding forest has an ominous air. She shivers, and follows Jughead as he leads her down the forest path.

It’s breathtaking, the rushing of the river beneath the moonlight. They settle on the rocks, in an eerie reflection of her first time seeing him. She thinks back, about how even then he’d captured her attention.

She pulls her jacket tight around her shoulders, and shifts a little closer to him.

There’s something impending around them, between them.

The vast gaping mouth of the river is spilling beneath them with unforgiving persistence, a slip here or there and it would pull someone down without a moment’s retreat. Coupled with the oppressive darkness that seeps around the forest they’re in the middle of, she recognizes that this is not the kind of place she would come alone.

Somehow, this place is even more beautiful at night.

Jughead clears his throat, and she jumps. She’d become so immersed in her own musings and the atmosphere around her, that she’d almost expected that they had come here simply to sit in silence.

She glances over at him as he opens his mouth to speak. “So… I guess you know about the Serpents, and Fred, then?”

“Veronica, she said that Fred was shot when you guys were 15, and that everyone thought it was the Serpents. That’s – that’s all.”

He nods, looking down at his knees where they’re curled up into him. “Right.” He emits a sigh, one that’s mostly masked by the hand he runs over his face, before he turns to her head-on.

It’s dark, so she can barely make out his expression, but perhaps it’s better she doesn’t know. Her pulse runs quicker and her fingers itch to clench, in a tell-tale motion of anxiety.

“It wasn’t, though. It wasn’t us.”

“Who… Veronica never said, but who was it? In the end?”

Jughead shrugs, clasping his hands together. “Nobody knows. But it sure as hell wasn’t the Serpents. Keller tried to pin it on us every angle he could and nothing stuck, and my dad, he--” Jughead’s voice cracks in a gentle way, cutting through the incensed tone to something raw, “-- he was best friends with Fred, when they were younger. No matter what happened between them… he wouldn’t. He couldn’t have done anything to hurt him. And nothing happened without dad’s say so, back then. And now, to some extent.”

Intrigued, Betty can’t stop from asking. “How can _nobody _know? How is that even possible?”

“I have no idea. But it’s something that’s haunted this town for almost 15 years, now. Fred… he’s a real pillar-of-the-community type. People were – still are, obviously – horrified and enraged for him.”

Betty shivers, for reasons other than the cold, and feels her face pulling into a deep frown. Fred Andrews was her neighbor, and she knew what Jughead meant. He kind of inspired a sense of loyalty to him, just by being so upstanding. He’d helped her and Polly a lot around the house when they had first moved in.

Jughead continues, “and then, of course, there’s the fact that it happened at Pop’s. There’s nothing more quintessentially Riverdale than Pop’s, and there’s no-one more quintessentially Riverdale than Fred Andrews. People felt like it was an attack on everything they loved about this town.” He shrugs. “Who knows. Maybe it was.”

“_God._ That – that is so. So. Awful doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

“Yeah. Things kind of fell apart after that. Dad was so destroyed by what happened – because for a long time we didn’t know if Fred was gonna make it. His drinking got worse.” Jughead pauses, like the last part wasn’t meant to be said, and he covertly eyes Betty. “And then… well, shit was sideways, and eventually going to Riverdale High wasn’t working, so I transferred to Southside. I think that just solidified everything Veronica had already thought about me, to be honest. And Arch just… he had tunnel vision.”

Betty tries to find her voice, shocked into quiet from the sheer volume of conversation being offered by Jughead, something she hadn’t encountered before. “V said… she said you joined the Serpents, then.” She offers it shyly; unsure of whether or not it’s something he wants to talk about. She’s unsure if _she_ wants to talk about it, as well.

His shoulders rise to his ears, and he sort of folds inward. “Yeah, I guess she would see it as simple and linear as that.”

“Isn’t it?” Betty probes.

“No. Sort of. I don’t know.” He exhales heavily through his nose. “A lot of things happened at once back then. Jelly came back, and I had to… to find some way to be there for her. The Serpents aren’t _bad,_ you know. Whatever Veronica might think.”

“JB came back? From where?” Betty does the math rapidly in her head. JB couldn’t have been older than 11 back then, so she’s unsure where the girl would have gone. With a quick realization, it dawns on her that she’s never heard JB speak about their mother.

Jughead scrubs a hand over his head, taking his beanie off and wringing it in his hands. “After… when Fred was shot, and Dad’s drinking got worse, Mom couldn’t deal with it anymore, I guess. I think she wanted to get Jelly out of Riverdale because she was afraid of what Jones’ become when we stay here.” He ruminates, staring out at the water. “I stayed with Archie, mostly, after that. Then…” he huffs, pausing, “then Mom dropped Jelly back with Dad, and split. Dad was in no condition to be looking after an 11 year old, so I moved back home and back to the Southside.”

Betty can feel her facial features morphing into horror, but Jughead doesn’t stop talking. “And then the Serpents were an inevitability, I guess. They keep us safe, you know. It’s not something I really expect someone like Veronica to understand. So, no, it’s not really that simple. Or linear.”

He seems to lose it then, whatever was driving him to open up to her, and she can feel the exhaustion rolling off him in waves. She wonders if anyone has ever gotten this much out of him, if he’s ever talked about it with anyone.

And she doesn’t know what to say, or if there is anything she can say.

Without thinking about it, she slides a hand over where his are clinging to his beanie still. Prying his left hand away from the hat, she slips her fingers loosely through his. He turns his hand upward, giving her access, and squeezes gently. She squeezes back.

“I… I can’t imagine what that was like,” she says, “but I think Veronica is coming around. You’re right, I’m not sure she’d understand. Does… does Archie know?”

Jughead swallows. “Yeah. I think JB told him. He, uh. He visited me, when I was inside. Once.”

Betty breathes in, her extremities freezing and legs going numb. She squeezes his hand again, that point of contact warm enough to distract from the cold.

Abruptly, Jughead goes to stand, pulling Betty with him. “We should head home.”

She just nods, and as they walk back to the car, she keeps her hand clasped in his.

Neither of them pulls away until he has to drive.

***

The months leading to Christmas seem to rush by, speeding time up as though someone was winding a clock forward. Riverdale becomes encased in snow, and it’s different than winter in New York. The snow stays white, and everything looks like a story-book or snow globe. The brown city slush she was used to was nowhere to be seen.

Betty becomes busier than she could ever have imagined achieving anywhere other than the city. The Christmas specialty items on the _Coopers’ _menu are a hit and she is inundated with pre-orders for Christmas feasts and catering requests for holiday work parties and school events. Veronica’s help with organizing her books is so essential Betty doesn’t know how she could ever repay her.

While the end of another year approaches and time speeds past, things with Jughead are halted, moving so glacially she’s not sure she could describe what they are to be moving at all.

And that’s fine, really. She’s given herself many a pep talk. Maybe he just wants to be friends.

Aside from the time they held hands and he bared his soul to her, she can’t really pinpoint anything more-than-friendly about their interactions. At least, not on his end.

Maybe they’re just meant to be friends. And that is okay. _Really, it is._

She throws herself into her work, and is grateful to have gained a new friend. And forcefully keeps herself from thinking that they could ever be something more.

It’s the day before Christmas Eve, and she and Polly have to venture to the grocery store and face the masses if they want to be serving anything resembling traditional Christmas food tomorrow. Betty had closed the bakery officially for the holiday season the day before, and it will remain closed until the 3rd of January. It will be the longest break she’s had since moving to Riverdale, and she was quietly proud of herself for making the time to take a break.

It’s not something she would have ever done, years ago.

Kyle comes barreling down the stairs, wrapped in a bright purple puffer jacket and snow boots. He’s recently decided purple is the best color, and had convinced Betty to buy him the jacket as an early Christmas gift. His hair clashes horribly with it, but he still manages to look adorable. Go figure.

Directly behind him is Beth, a candy cane stuck in her mouth and a giant argyle sweater that definitely does not belong to her dangling off her body. She grins toothily at Betty, taking the candy cane from her mouth. “Betty, Mom said we can help with the cooking tomorrow!”

Betty has a flash of irritation, knowing that teaching the twins in the kitchen makes everything take twice as long, but she tampers it down and smiles at Beth as wide as she can.

“That’s great! Now both of you get your boots on and head out to the car okay?”

When they finally make it to the grocery store, both Polly and Betty are flustered and agitated from having to spend 15 minutes searching for a parking space. Beth and Kyle have decided to argue about what task each of them will work on for the cooking tomorrow, and the incessant bickering was drilling a migraine right behind Betty’s eyes.

The four of them were trying to fight their way through the crowds in the fruit aisle, when Polly jumps and drops an entire bag of apples she’d been placing in their cart. The apples rolled along the linoleum and scattered, causing the crowd to disperse and scowl and mutter under their breath. Betty, confused, turns to her sister.

“Polly? What’s--” she’s cut off by the look on Polly’s face, ashen and frozen, staring directly ahead of them. Her eyes were wide as saucers and her hands had been drawn up to rest on her chest. She’s the picture of complete shock. Betty follows her line of sight, eyes scanning for whatever could be the cause for this reaction.

She doesn’t see it, at first. Beth and Kyle are in front of them, a little ahead, collecting oranges in a bag. A few places in front, is another set of redheaded twins, the spitting image of Betty’s niece and nephew, only, they’re adults. 

One, a woman, has long flowing red hair and is dressed in a knee length leopard coat, a distasteful look on her face, while the other, a man, is slightly taller with short hair of the exact same shade, dressed in a black ski jacket.

The room feels like it’s spinning, and the walls seem to be closing in on them, creating a tunnel of vision between each set of twins, young and old.

_There’s no way._

No_ fucking _way.

Apparently, there is a way. Years of not knowing where the father of her children is, or any information about him beyond a first name, and Polly runs into him.

At random.

In a grocery store, in a town with a population of less than 10,000 people.

Truly, the universe has a way of making life feel like some kind of cosmic joke, sometimes.

When Betty realizes what’s happening, Polly seems to spring to action, pulling Betty by her shoulders in front of her, maneuvering to hide behind her at the exact same time as Beth and Kyle come back with bags of oranges and persimmons, loudly asking why Polly is hiding behind Betty.

The redheaded girl in the leopard coat seems to notice the commotion, and her eyes flash sharply toward them. Her eyes meet Betty’s, who has the sensation of being a deer caught in the headlights. Her brother catches his sister’s shifted attention, eyes also falling to where Betty is, and Betty inadvertently steps to the right, revealing Polly in a crouch behind her.

Polly rises, frowning at Betty, before turning her gaze to the man whose face is a kaleidoscope of recognition, shock and disbelief.

Everything moves in slow motion as the people in the store move around them, and the man steps toward them, mouth agape. The twins start fussing, unaware their lives had just been upended completely. When the man notices the twins, his eyes widen almost comically, and it’s as if it all falls into place for him, the truth dawning on him, slow and smooth and something that will never come unstuck.

_“Polly?”_ Her name is a question on his tongue, and it makes Polly jump in her skin. She recovers, with undoubtedly a monumental amount of strength, and moves toward him.

Betty wrings her hands and follows after her, before thinking better of it, shooting a meaningful look at Polly and turning to Kyle and Beth. “Come on, guys. We’ll let your Mom catch up with her friend. Let’s finish up the shopping.”

Never let it be said that Betty can’t remain cool-headed in a crisis.

She spends the rest of the shopping trip trying to maintain a singular focus, attaining the items on their shopping list. When Betty steps out of the store, Kyle and Beth at her side and a cart full of bags, Polly and the man – Jason, he _must _be – and the woman from earlier are next to their car, locked in a hushed but heated argument. The woman is using her height advantage to intimidate Polly, who looked shaken and is rebutting the woman’s words wildly. Jason stands to the side silently, his face a ghostly white and eyes red-rimmed.

As Betty approaches, the kids in tow, he gazes at Kyle and Beth, eyes not leaving them. He lets out a soft choke, and the woman abruptly pauses in her monologue. She purses her cherry red lips, and places a red-clawed hand on his shoulder, the points of her nails curling into him protectively.

Polly has her arms folded over her, and says pointedly. “Kyle, Beth. Get into the car, please.”

The woman snaps her eyes to Polly, opening her mouth, probably to contradict her. Polly simply nods in her direction, and surprisingly, she doesn’t say anything. Betty is loading their groceries into the trunk of the car, and she catches parts of Polly’s muted tones.

“We can’t do anything here – just… just let me get them home.”

“So that you can run away? I don’t think so!”

_“Please,_ I’m not going to do that. I want Jason to know them. And you. I promise, look.” There’s a rustling, and when Betty shuts the trunk and makes her way to them, Polly is holding out a piece of paper with something scrawled across it, a ballpoint pen in her other hand. “Here’s my number, and our address. We can… we can talk about this. Just not now, please.”

The woman narrows her eyes, looking as if she wants to argue, but Jason stops her._ “Cheryl.”_ His tone is dry and wretched. He turns to face Polly head-on, eyes searching her face. He nods, taking the proffered contact information. “You’ll hear from us,” he states, effectively ending the conversation. With a last longing look into the back seat of the car, where Kyle and Beth are sat, he and his sister stalk off.

And Polly falls into Betty, shaking like a leaf.

Their Christmas celebrations are dulled, somewhat, by the event that is the sudden appearance of Kyle and Beth’s long lost father. Betty and Polly spend the whole evening awake, Polly vaulting between complete distress and sunny optimism. They each decide to keep the information from the kids until after Christmas, and thus the withheld secret looms over all of them.

The next day, Polly announces to Betty that she’s going to meet Jason for coffee, to ‘discuss things’. Betty’s pragmatism wars with her desire to let Polly handle things her way, and eventually the latter wins out. She wants to suggest that Polly speak to a lawyer first, but Polly has already started talking about arranging weekly rotating caring schedules and taking the twins to meet Jason’s family, the Blossoms.

They haven’t even discussed how they’re going to tell Beth and Kyle, yet.

Betty’s struck with the differences in their dispositions, where she tries to plan her way through life, Polly is usually content with taking things as they come and running with them. And, while she’s certainly protective of her children, her blindingly positive attitude toward life has more or less convinced her that this man she met once, almost a decade ago, _must_ be a good person.

“He’s a _sports agent,_ Betty, how nefarious could he really be?”

The answer is, obviously to Betty – but apparently not to Polly, very. With a grin and bear it attitude, because there really is no alternative, Betty just smiles and nods, accepting this completely unacceptable argument. At least Polly isn’t dragging the kids to meet Jason at the same time as their first proper meeting in 8 years.

Stuck with babysitting duty, racing thoughts that won’t let up and a house full of leftovers, Betty finds herself in need of company. She texts JB first.

_I’m with Amy today, sorry! ;-)_

Those two were practically joined at the hip, these days. It’s sweet, and unbearable to be around, the way most new relationships are. She ignores the suggestive wink pointedly, and replies.

_That’s okay. Say hi to her from me. I hope you both had a good Christmas. B xo_

Betty entertains briefly the notion of contacting Veronica and Archie, but she knows they had a stressful Christmas trying to mesh their parents, who apparently can not stand each other, and probably aren’t in the mood for company. V had texted Betty the whole previous day with a running commentary, some heavy on expletives and some mostly in Spanish. Her father is the only person Betty has ever heard of that does_ not _like Fred Andrews. Or Archie, by proxy.

Her mind flits to Kevin, but remembers he was spending the holidays with his new boyfriend’s family in Aspen.

She knows there’s really only one person she wants to see. No matter how much she doesn’t want to admit it. She opens her contacts and scrolls to ‘J’, her thumb hovering over his name, but never landing. With a sharp exhale, she presses the button on the side of her phone and the screen goes black.

Trying to distract herself, she decides to bake something mindless, to keep her hands busy. The twins are situated in the den, fully engrossed in a stack of classic Christmas films with a stock pile of snacks, and probably won’t emerge until the end of the day. She wonders briefly if she should be doing something active with them, concerned that they would be sitting around all day.

Then she nips that idea in the bud, knowing full well that neither child would let themselves be dragged outside in the current weather, the novelty of Riverdale’s picturesque snow having well and truly worn off.

An hour later, and she has managed to fuck up chocolate chip cookies. The most basic of recipes. One of her best selling treats. And there they lay, burnt around the edges, some that concave in and others merely flat. She feels heat in her cheeks and a stab in her ego, and knows there’s nothing for it. With a resigned sigh, and a death glare in the direction of the destroyed cookies, she texts Jughead.

_Hi, how are you? I hope you had a good Christmas. B xo_

The innocuous message takes her an unnecessary amount of time to construct. She debates inviting him over in her first message, but decides on pleasantries first, in case he’s busy.

The reply comes sooner than she expects, as she’s staring intently at her screen. Her phone vibrates in her hand, making her jump, her heart rate quickening and stomach flipping.

_Not bad, thanks. Same to you. What are you up to today?_

Chewing on her bottom lip, she replies hurriedly this time, before she can talk herself out of it.

_I’m babysitting the twins and I’m bored. Do you want to come over and maybe watch a movie?_

She presses send before she can internally debate her phrasing. She sends out another message before he can respond.

_We have lots of leftovers! You can help us finish them off._

She waits. A minute ticks by and she has to put her phone down on the bench to stop from staring at their conversation, willing a response. She walks to the fridge and opens it, assessing the contents in a move that doesn’t work at all to distract her. When her phone buzzes against the bench, she runs from the fridge to answer.

_Sure, sounds good. I’ll be there in half an hour?_

Responding in the affirmative, she looks down at her outfit. Sweats and an old jersey, streaked with flour and melted chocolate. She tosses her failed cookies in the trash, never to be spoken of again, and races upstairs to change.

When the doorbell rings, she’s dressed in dark denim jeans and a moss green knitted sweater, feeling significantly more put together externally. Internally, she’s a bundle of exposed electrical wires, ready to be set ablaze at the slightest ignition.

When she’s behind the door, she takes a calming breath, sliding her hands over invisible creases in her jeans. Plastering a serene smile upon her features, she opens the door to find Jughead, slumped casually against the doorframe. Dressed in a red plaid jacket, black jeans, combat boots and his beanie, she drinks him in. The semi-scowl that seems permanently etched into his face, the piercing deep blue of his eyes, and the small dimple that forms in his cheek as his mouth lifts to the side in an almost smile.

“Hi,” she starts, but doesn’t finish.

“Hi,” he repeats, and they stare at each other for a moment.

Remembering herself, she steps aside, allowing him inside. He steps out of his boots and places them neatly by the door, in an act of politeness she admires and appreciates.

“Have you… have you had a busy day?” she asks, attempting light conversation.

His hands rest in the pockets of his jacket and he lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “No, not really.” He glances around the entranceway to the living room. “Where are Beth and Kyle?”

“Watching movies in the den, I don’t think they’ll venture out much today.”

He nods in recognition. “Right.”

And oh, God. It’s awkward. Just like it has been ever since the night at the river. The easy friendship they’ve formed is clutching on by a thread, and while it’s definitely still there, the memory of their hands entwined and secrets unburdened make things just tense enough to feel as though they’re dangling on the precipice of something.

“Would you like something to eat? We have leftover turkey, roast potatoes, pumpkin pie…” she rattles off.

“Yes, to all,” he says eagerly, and follows her to the kitchen. He sniffs at the air,.“You baking cookies?”

She flushes what must be a dark crimson, looking anywhere but at him. “I _was._ They didn’t… turn out as planned.”

He gives her a curious look, but she passes him items from the fridge to hold as she turns the oven to preheat, and it passes.

“So, where’s Polly?”

With a sigh, a deep breath, and the desire to vent completely, she divulges the events of the last two days with a rush, pacing the kitchen floor in front of where he leans against the pantry.

Suitably shocked, he exclaims, “_Jason Blossom is Kyle and Beth’s dad?” _and when she nods, his brows raise almost to his hairline. She continues, hands flinging in front of her in exclamation, her concerns and apprehension escaping her before she can hold it back.  
He listens intently, enthralled and staggered in equal amounts, offering noises of encouragement, agreement and exclamation at all the right moments.

When she mentions Polly’s total denial that this could go horribly wrong, he frowns, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth and crossing his arms over his chest. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. 

“What?” she says. He doesn’t reply, just eyes her carefully. “What is it?”

“The Blossoms. They...” He stares at a space behind her ear, and the timer on the oven interrupts them. She shoots him a questioning frown, before turning to retrieve their now piping hot food. He stays silent while she dishes up, and when they’re situated at the kitchen table, she gives him a look that she hopes plainly says, _tell me now._

He acquiesces, thankfully. “The Blossoms just have like, a chokehold on this town.”

“What does that mean?” she asks, leaning toward him with intrigue.

“It means they control most of the industry in this town, and practically own most of it. “ He pauses, shifting in his seat and staring at a spot somewhere behind Betty’s shoulder. “There was a power struggle a while back over their company when Jason refused to take over.”

Betty feels her brows furrow. “What kind of power struggle?”

He shrugs, shoveling turkey on his fork. “The kind that airs an old wealthy family’s dirty laundry for the entire town to see. Since then they’ve mostly kept to themselves, and Jason stays away, last I heard he lived in L.A.”

Betty recalls the woman with Jason at the grocery store, and she definitely had not seen her around town before. “There was a sister, though. I met her, sort of.”

Jughead raises his brows, shifting in his seat. “Yeah. Cheryl. She’s kind of… in a league of her own. She doesn’t live here anymore either, though. I think she lives in L.A with Jason.”

“How do you know all this?” Betty rests her elbow on the table and leaned her chin on her hand, soaking up any details she can.

“People talk. It’s a small town.” He clears his throat. “It’s amazing what you learn if you just don’t say anything at all.”

“Right,” she says, frowning at her plate. “Do you… do you think it’s a good idea, for Polly to trust him? Jason, I mean?”

“I don’t know.” At the look on her face, he emphasizes, “_Really._ I don’t know Jason personally. I have no idea what he’s like.”

She pushes her plate of food to the side, worrying her lip between her teeth. Brushing a stray hair back into her ponytail, she stands, collecting their plates. Hers is barely touched, whereas he’d managed to finish everything off. When she comes back from the kitchen, he’s standing, arms crossed and hip leaning against the dining table.

He looks at her expectantly.

“I’m concerned,” she states, in answer to his unspoken question. “Polly can be reckless, sometimes. Not _dangerous,_ or anything. But like she hasn’t thought things through, and just kind of expects everything to work out. And if Jason is planning on something - I don’t know, like trying to get custody, or even if he’s just not a very good person and wants to be involved in the twins’ lives. I mean…” She thinks for a moment, trying to find what’s bothering her so much.

“I mean, if things go wrong, and I can’t protect them from it, it would be terrible.” She exhales, emphasizing on the final word. “And it would damage those kids irreparably. I don’t know what to do because… because the _last_ thing I want is to undermine Polly. Mom did that all the time. But maybe, maybe I’m being just like Mom, and I need to – I need to keep my mouth shut. _Or,_ maybe Polly is jumping before she’s ready to fall, and if I do nothing it’ll all come crashing down. Maybe I…”

“Betty.” Jughead cuts her off. He’s in front of her, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder, leaning his chin down to look into her eyes. “Stop.”

She lets out an exaggerated sigh. “I know, I sound crazy.” Shaking her head, her fingers itch to clench.

His mouth turns upward, and there’s a hint of humor in his eyes. “We’re_ all _crazy.”

Laughing, she breaks his gaze to look down at her feet. “I know. But, I’m kind of… a special brand of crazy.” Looking back up at him, she explains, “I just can’t turn my worrying off, sometimes. It gets a little crowded, in my head.”

His thumb is digging into her collarbone, and it’s a little hard to breath. She brings a hand up to catch his, her fingers wrapping at his wrist.

“Yeah, I… I get it,” he responds, gaze pulling toward where her hand is on his. He frowns. “But I don’t think you should worry about it, this early on. You don’t know what could happen.”

She gives him a look, conveying that, well, _that’s exactly the problem,_ but he just looks back, intent and steadfast, and the tension eases inside her.

“In the meantime,” he starts, “did you want to watch a movie?”

It works at distracting her, for a little while. They sit comfortably next to each other, leaning into the other’s presence. It’s pleasant. There is a lot of apprehension between them still, but he also manages to distract her enough into calm, and it’s not something she could have achieved without him today, she thinks.

They’re watching some art house film from the early 2000s he’d picked out on Netflix, and she’s struggling to follow the plot. Her mind wanders to him, daydreaming about leaning closer, about nestling into the crook of his neck.

Successfully breaking Betty from her reverie, Polly arrives home with gusto. She’s practically buzzing, eyes wide and shiny. She doesn’t even give her usual reproachful look toward Jughead, instead greeting him as she would anyone else. He stammers in response, clearly thrown off by Polly’s swift change in attitude.

“So, how did it go?” Betty tries to remain casual, but her interest is clear.

Polly flops down on the couch, in between Betty and Jughead, and looks over at Betty with a gaze that could only be described as dreamy. 

“Oh, Betty. He’s wonderful!” She claps her hands together and folds them over her chest. “We decided to tell Kyle and Beth together! He wants us to attend his family’s New Years Eve party. How lovely of him, don’t you think?” she gushes.

Betty stutters, choking down the response she desperately wants to give. Jughead catches her eye, and they share a look, and it keeps her at bay. “Are you sure that’s the best idea, Pol?”

“Betty, how could it not be? This is what I’ve always wanted, and destiny has thrown Jason and me together again. It’s meant to be.” She’s emphatic, gesturing wildly with her hands as if to convey the strength of her message.

Jughead makes an odd choking sound, earning a look of ire from Polly, whose listless smile turns promptly to a frown. “If you can’t be supportive, then please just keep your opinion to yourself,” she aims at Betty.

And it seems impossible.

But she agrees, because there really is no other option.

When Polly smiles at her once again, she leaves them to go check on Kyle and Beth, and Jughead inches closer to Betty.

“You okay?” he asks in a murmur.

She lets out the breath she’s been holding, clasping her hands tightly together. “I don’t know, honestly. I mean, what _was_ that?”

He laughs softly. “What, you mean you don’t buy the ‘destiny has thrown them together’ story?” he asks sarcastically, lifting his fingers in scare-quotes.

She side-eyes him, and replies with some scare-quoting of her own. “I’m a little concerned about why ‘destiny’ didn’t throw them back together 8 years ago, frankly.”

“Er… well, as far as these ‘destiny’ types go, it’s probably like… ‘something, something backbone, and something, something moral fibre, and learning to persevere through hard times’, probably,” he adds flippantly, and she’s struck all over again with how glad she is he’s here. His particular brand of sardonic humor helps burst the bubble of crazy that she feels she is currently dwelling in, and it’s nice to have someone else to point and laugh at it and say _yes, this is ridiculous, _right alongside her.

“I can’t believe she’s just going to introduce them to him. How will that even go? ‘Hey, kids, surprise! Here’s your father! I mean, what the hell.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Kids are more resilient than you think. Remember what you said earlier about not wanting to undermine your sister? Just hold onto that.”

She nods. “I know. _I know.”_ There’s a pause, and she reaches out to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t flinch anymore, when she touches him. It used to be a regular occurrence, and for a long time she measured every move she made around him, testing it all out carefully, afraid that the flinching meant she should be distant. But, after every flinch, there had been a moment where he’d relax into it, and his face would kind of go still and serene. As time went on, it began to be him who initiated contact, however minimal, and it’s something she still hasn’t quite gotten used to.

Now, when she touches him and he doesn’t react, like he’s finally come to expect it, it feels like trust.

His eyes are warm and there’s the tiniest of lines between his brows. “For what?”

“For being here, and for listening. It’s helped, today. A lot.” It comes out hopelessly earnest, which very obviously makes him uncomfortable.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck and gives her a sheepish smile. “It’s nothing. Really.” His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, pointing a finger back at the TV. “Should we, uh. Keep watching?”

She nods, and turns her attention back to the screen, taking it off pause.

10 minutes later and she’s as confused as she had been before Polly’s arrival. “I just don’t get what’s happening here at_ all,_” she complains, and he laughs at her.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t get it either until like, my third time watching.” He clearly intends this statement to be reassuring but, to Betty all she hears is the expectation that she’ll watch it again.

“Three times? You expect me to see this movie three times?” she asks, disbelieving, flailing a hand in the direction of the TV.

He frowns at her. “What, you’re not a movie re-watcher?”

“Sure, with things I_ like_, not things that literally make zero sense.” She turns toward him and leaned her face on the back of the couch, enjoying the bickering with him more than watching the film anyway.

“But…” He leans closer into her, trying to convey some sense of importance. “How will you know if you like it or not, if you don’t at least try to understand it?”

She bites down a smile, brow quirking at him. “Well. Maybe I could try, I guess.”

He grins broadly at her, and her stomach flips, and she thinks - _kiss him_. And she could. He’s so close, less than an arms length away from her. It would be so easy to reach for him, to place her lips on his.

She rips her gaze from him, settling it back on the screen, shuffling in her seat. As easy as it could be, is as hard as it would be if he recoiled from her, if the flinching returned. They’re _friends,_ she reminds herself. She can’t bring herself to risk the tentative trust held between them, delicate and new.

So she sits through Mulholland Drive, tampering down her desire to crawl closer to him. And when he leaves, she hugs him goodbye, but she doesn’t linger like she wants to. It’s brief, and friendly, and she tries to convince herself that that is all she wants, because that is all she’ll get.

Sighing in resignation as she watches his retreating figure before closing the front door, she startles at Polly’s voice from behind her. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

She widens her eyes, shrugging a shoulder downward as if recoiling. “What?”

Polly shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re entertaining the possibility of something with that… that criminal, but you can’t believe that meeting Jason again is a _good_ thing, Betty.” She’s intense in her gaze, approaching Betty with fervor.

Betty bites back the retort she feels, instead attempting evasiveness. “I’m not entertaining the possibility of anything – but if I _was, _that would be fine. You know he’s my friend, Polly. Stop talking about him like he’s something you scrape off your shoe.” Polly loosens, looking suitably chagrined at the admonishment. “And I never said it wasn’t a good thing, Pol. I just want you to be cautious, that’s all.”

Polly gathers both of Betty’s hands in hers, a pleading look in her eye. “If I promise to be cautious, will you promise to give him a chance?”

And Betty knows it’s a scam. Polly doesn’t _do_ cautious, and Betty would give anyone a chance, because that’s the kind of person she is. There’s no possibility of this going any differently, so she nods, complying. She just hopes that, for the sake of her niece and nephew, her worries are for naught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, i know. I really just had to include some of Polly's baby-daddy drama. 
> 
> The song B + J listen to in the car is the same one this chapter is named after and quoted at the start, neither of us uncertainly by Deerhunter. 
> 
> please let me know your thoughts in the comments!


	3. Love something enough to want to help it get free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead Jones is an attendee of two actual parties. 
> 
> Did the sky fall?
> 
> Well, maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: recreational drug use, discussion of PTSD symptoms, mixing of prescription medication with marijuana that i do not endorse, mention of the suicide of an off-screen minority character
> 
> Please let me know if you think i should add any warnings i may have missed.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts, and thank you so so much to all who have commented and kudos’ed, it means so much.
> 
> Chapter title and opening quote is from the same song this story is named after. Seriously, wild fire by Laura Marling. I highly recommend it.

_you wanna get high? Overcome those desires before you come to me_ ~Laura Marling  
~~~

“Jughead!” JB yells from across the house, voice echoing to where Jughead lays on his bed, thumbing a well-worn copy of _The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists_, a relic of his contrary adolescence and the current research for his own writing of a ‘problem novel’. “Could you pick up the keg from the store?”

He draws his knees up, leaning an elbow on one and pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. He yells back, at equal volume, “Why the hell didn’t you ask me _yesterday?”_

A sigh leaves him, and he tosses the book to the side. When he meets the source of the demands in the living room, she’s stringing dollar-store decorations up with the help of her girlfriend.

JB turns with a pleading look on her face. “_Please, _Jug. I completely forgot!”

He points at Amy. “And why can’t she drive you there?”

“_She_ is busy helping set up for this party you refuse to help with,” Amy retorts, arching a pierced brow in his direction.

Grabbing his jacket and his pack of smokes, he resigns himself to going out in public on New Years Eve, something he’d been avoiding like the plague. “I’ll remind you again that I refuse to help because I did not agree to hold this party. But, fine. I’ll get the keg. But you owe me, JB. You gotta let me stay in my room all night, okay? No dragging me out or descending upon my room with hoards of your little friends.”

JB places a hand on her hip, and smiles at him mischievously. “Sure, but I think you’ll probably want to venture out to grace us with your presence anyway. Betty’s coming.”

He freezes, hand on the doorknob and stares at JB. Betty? At a Southside party?

“What?” his voice shakes, giving him away.

JB laughs triumphantly, a shit-eating grin spreading over her face. He recovers, slightly. “I – I thought she would be going to Arch and Veronica’s, that’s all.” He clears his throat, shrugging uncomfortably, and leaves the house with JB laughing behind him.

Fuck.

He pulls on a cigarette, exhaling in a cloud of acrid smoke as he reverses the truck out, wheels sliding uneasily along the ice.

Later in the evening, his house is overrun by Serpents and, unfortunately, a large crowd of teenagers from Southside High. Considering their house is barely big enough for the two of them, he’s sincerely grateful that JB has a few trash-can fires set up outside that most people are congregating around. He’s halfway through a pack of camels, 3 beers deep into a 6-pack and almost done with his re-read of the Tressell novel when there’s a knock on his bedroom door, barely heard over the sounds of a Notorious B.I.G track and what sounds like a group of teenagers attempting to rap along with it.

Irritation spikes when the door swings open and, leaning against the door jam, is Toni Topaz.

He grimaces in her direction, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it, exhaling as he addresses her. “The fuck you want, Toni?”

Her expression falters, shifting from apprehensive to downtrodden. She pulls at her cotton-candy colored hair, the same color as when they were kids, and whatever makeup she’s got on her face catches the light coming from his room, giving her cheeks a soft glow against her light brown skin. She steps inside the room, shutting the door behind her.

“C’mon, Toni. I thought I’d made it pretty clear I don’t want to talk to you, every time you tried at the Wyrm, or when I wouldn’t see you in when you came to visit inside.” He slumps down in a seated position on his bed, staring at the wall and attempting indifference to her.

“Jug… please. Just let me, let me apologize – I never thought that Cheryl would --”

He snaps back at her, “I don’t wanna hear it.”

Her jaw clenches, and she fiddles with the zip of her leather Serpents jacket. This captures his attention, and in a move of spite, he says, “You know, if the Serpents knew what you did, that you were the reason I --”

“You wouldn’t,” she retorts, cutting him off. She sighs, and in a softer tone, continues, “I know you Jug, and you wouldn’t do that to me. Come _on._ You’re forgetting we grew up together, and I know that you’d never do anything that would leave someone with nobody.”

He flicks the ash from his smoke into the tray, glaring at the floor where his blankets and pillows are strewn, a reminder of the lasting impact his time inside has had on him, right there in front of the girl responsible for it.

And, okay - maybe not entirely responsible. But she broke his trust, which wasn’t exactly something people could come back from, with him.

He runs a hand over his face, then gestures it at her in a shooing motion. “Would you just fuck off? I’m tired and I’m not in the mood.”

She snorts, and sits down next to him, plucking a smoke from his pack on the bedside table and lighting it, in a truly audacious move only she could pull off. “When are you ever in the mood, really? I’ve known you since you were 15, and you’ve never been ‘in the mood to talk,’ ever.”

“Fine, you wanna talk. Go ahead.” He grabs his headphones and shoves them on his ears, picking up his phone to choose a song.

She rips the headphones off him, glaring. “Fuck you, Jughead. I’m trying to say I’m sorry.” She flings the headphones back on the bed, her tone imploring. “I didn’t know Cheryl would go running to her daddy-dearest, okay? I thought she and I were on the same page. I _thought _she hated her family as much as we do. I’m fucking _sorry._”

If Toni were the kind to cry, her eyes would be brimming with tears. Instead, her voice wavers, and Jughead does so along with her, against his better judgment.

His shoulders slacken and he eyes her carefully, sighing as he reads her sincere expression, knowing full well that she's been torturing herself since his arrest, almost 7 years ago now. “What’s done is done, I guess,” he says vaguely, but she understands him, understands that what he means is_ apology accepted._

Smiling tentatively, she pulls on her smoke, and he continues, “It’s not all your fault, really. It was stupid to even think of stealing from the Blossoms. Probably would have gotten caught even if Cheryl hadn’t ratted.”

Toni shakes her head. “No, Jug. What was stupid was me thinking I could ever have something real with her. A Southside serpent making it with the heir of Riverdale’s fucked up aristocrats? Truly the height of idiocy.”

He smirks. “Well, you said it.” And he doesn’t mean it, not really. Toni and Cheryl_ had _made sense together. Cheryl Blossom was the ignition right before a wildfire and Toni was the calm afterwards, the ash and skeletons of the past, along with that calm feeling that something really bad has happened, but it’s over, it’s all over now.

She loops an arm through his, and he tenses, body going rigid at the touch. “Shit, Jug, loosen up. It’s a party.”

He attempts a laugh, but it dies before it leaves him, “Yeah, well. Like you said, you’ve known me for a long time. When do I ever enjoy parties?” He plays it off, ignoring the fact that her proximity is making him queasy. _Get over it,_ his mind offers. And he curses himself for being so incapable of normalcy, for the fleeting panic that rushes through him at every unexpected touch.

Toni eyes the novel tossed beside him and empty beer cans, rolling her eyes. “Enjoy your solitude then, loser.” She gets up, making her way to the door. Before she leaves, she turns to him one more time, where he’s settling back in with his book. “I – thank you. And I really_ am _sorry, Jug.”

Her gaze lingers on his for a beat, and he stares back, before nodding. The resentment, that he’s held for so long – probably just for something to hold to, he thinks -- it leaves him. What’s the point of being angry with her, when it will change nothing? The accuracy of his previous statement, that what’s done is done, hits him somewhere painfully real.

He swallows the realization like it’s bile in his throat, and he’s never needed to write more than now. He pulls up his laptop, editing the chapter he’d been working on earlier.

_The story of Joaquin Desantos could have been my story. A young kid, from what people would call a categorically bad neighborhood, who had been haunted by the fact of incarceration his whole life, before it finally captured him, and turned him into a ghost._

_The first time I felt the watchful eye of law enforcement, I was five years old, trailing along after my father in the middle of town, when the sheriff chose to stop and search him. My father, quick to anger and hot-headed, fought this unfair treatment, and subsequently landed in a holding cell for a night. This moment, just a glimpse of my relationship to law enforcement throughout my life, is demonstrative of a life of being under near constant surveillance. This surveillance, however, never seemed to turn its watchful eye toward the times my family would go hungry for sometimes days at a time. It never saw how the parents of kids in my neighborhood would die younger than most, due to the myriad of ways that poverty is a slow death; creeping up on you with health problems you can’t afford to address, malnutrition you can’t do anything about, and violence that you can never escape._

_When my cellmate chose to take his own life, it should be understood that he never really had a choice at all._

He’s mulling over the last line and rolling a joint, when the door to his room pushes open once again, startling him. He figures it could be Toni, which irritates him. Sure, they’re tentatively okay again, but it’s still going to take a bit more than one conversation to get back on solid ground.

The last thing he expects is for it to be Betty who opens his door, her golden hair flowing over her shoulders and wrapped in a sky-blue dress, looking pristine and_ oh, _so out of place.

Her eyes widen when she sees him, clearly caught off-guard. “Oh! Jughead, I’m sorry. JB said I could put my bag in her room.” She gestures to the handbag slung over her shoulder. “But she just pointed down here and I had to guess which room was hers.”

He shakes his head, gesturing for her to come inside. “It’s fine. You can leave it in here, if you want. I promise to guard it with the utmost attention.”

She smiles, a furrow in her brow forming, the juxtaposition making for an intriguing facial expression. “What are you doing in here?”

He finishes up rolling his joint, twisting the end and placing it beside his lighter on the bedside cabinet. He’s suddenly acutely aware that Betty is in his room, and feels his neck burning at the thought. “Er, I’m not really the party type. I’ve resigned myself to not leaving this room for anything other than bathroom breaks until everyone has gone.”

She sucks in her bottom lip, a move that distracts him and pulls his attention to her mouth, causing his throat to go dry. 

“Oh, okay.” She sounds saddened, and her eyes flit between him and out the hall, considering something.

“You alright?” he asks, coming to stand in front of her.

“Yeah, yes,” she stutters, and clasps her hands together in front of her. “It’s just, I don’t really know anyone here other than JB and Amy, and you.” She huffs a short breath. “And JB and Amy are a little… occupied, on the couch.”

He gives a short laugh. “Oh, right. Yeah that’s uh, pretty standard, for them. They’ll probably disentangle themselves from each other sometime tomorrow,” he jokes, but knows he’s not far off.

When she smiles vaguely at him, he sucks in a breath. “You can hang out here, if you want.”

She gazes around his room, and then back at him. “You don’t mind? I don’t want to intrude.”

He lifts a shoulder. “You’re not, really.” He grabs her bag from her shoulder, placing it in the corner on the floor. “If you don’t find holing up in my room at a party too boring, or anything.”

She shakes her head emphatically. “You’re not boring!” she says, and sits delicately at the edge of his bed. The image tugs at his gut and he has a mini-crisis, terrified he’s going to have a heart attack on the spot if she even _thinks_ about relaxing into his bed. “What were you doing, before I interrupted?”

She’s eyeing his joint, and he wonders briefly if she knows what it is, or has ever smoked before. “Just writing, mostly. I was gonna take a break and smoke that, if you wanted to partake,” he says, pointing toward where her gaze is already fixed.

“Oh!” Her eyes widen, and she looks intrigued. “Um, no, that’s fine. But you go ahead.”

He sits next to her. “Nah, it’s fine. You want a beer?” He nods to the cans sitting atop a folded up blanket beside his bed, and wonders what he’d do if she asked why a makeshift sleeping place is crafted on the floor beside his bed.

“No, thank you.” She looks at the joint again. “It’s just… I would like to. Try it, I mean. But…” She fidgets, coiling her left hand around her right wrist, twisting at the skin there. “I’m on anti-anxiety meds, I’m not sure if they’ll interact well.”

This surprises him. He’d known she’d had her issues, in the past, from things she’s said, but he never would have guessed anything was ongoing. He also knows firsthand what it’s like to be on meds. When he was younger and had been forced to see a shrink after his second stay at Riverdale’s Juvenile Detention Centre, and they’d prescribed him as quickly as they could, ready to see the back of him.

“I was on Zoloft, a while back. If you’ve been on it for a while and are on a low dose, there shouldn’t be a bad interaction, not if you don’t have much.” He offers, “But it’s really a person-by-person thing, so it’s hard to know.”

She crosses her legs and turns to face him, smiling lightly. “Maybe I could just have a little? I haven’t had any since I was in culinary school. My friend used to experiment with different kinds of edibles, it was amazing. I’ve never smoked anything, before, though.”

And she’s shocked him, again. “Edibles, huh? That shit can be...”

She laughs under her breath, smirking at some memory. “Yeah. She used to make rice krispie treat edibles, and it was hilarious. Some of the best new chefs in the country and we were all sitting around eating rice krispies laced with pot. They were_ incredible _though.”

He laughs, a shock of a thing, from the depths of his chest. He picks up the joint, with a brow quirked in her direction, and she nods, taking it from him between careful fingers. Her hand brushes his as he passes it to her, and it jolts him, setting his nerves ablaze.

She purses her lips around the filter, flicking the lighter and bringing the flame to the tip. His gaze zeroes in on her, captivated by the gone-too-soon glow of the fire against her features, as her eyes close and she breathes in.

The thick, pungent smoke wraps around the two of them, and she splutters, coughing and rubbing a hand on her chest. He passes her his half empty can of beer, and she takes a sip. The coughing subsides, and she draws her hand up to play with the strands of her hair. “I’m not sure I did it right?”

He shakes his head. “You’re fine, just hold it a little longer and try to resist the urge to cough next time.” He takes the joint from her, taking his own pull from it. He lets the smoke settle in his lungs, breathing it in, before exhaling slowly.

They continue on in that way, and eventually Betty stops coughing altogether. A glazed look falls across her eyes and an easy smile, one he’s never seen her wear before, comes over her face. He feels himself slowing down, his blinking becoming heavy and thoughts a little emptier.

Betty is leaning into his space, taking the joint from him as it burns down to the end. “I want to try something,” she says, and places a thumb on his bottom lip, drawing his mouth open.

He sucks in a breath, frozen and captivated. She takes a final drag from the joint, and when she pulls it from her perfect, supple lips, she leans ever closer, and he has barely a moment to realize what she’s intending before she’s exhaling into his mouth, in a move so intimate he almost chokes. He pulls in the offered smoke, holding it in the depths of his lungs.

His head spins with it, and her eyelids flutter, like she wants to close her eyes to the moment, lost in her thoughts and sensation.

There’s a moment, before she pulls back from him, that their mouths are barely a breath apart, and he knows there’s a reason he should stop this, he should pull away, but he can’t quite remember why. All he knows in that moment is her, the depths of her green eyes and the hot flush of her breath against him.

Then she’s leaning back, relaxing her elbows on his bed and looking up at the ceiling. She tilts her head back and closes her eyes, swaying her head slowly from side to side as a small smile coaxes at her lips. “I feel good,” her voice floats toward him, “Calm.”

He melts next to her, unable to look away and smiling despite himself. Unable to form coherent conversation, he manages a small noise of acknowledgement, before raising a hand to stroke her cheek. It looks so soft, _she_ always looks so soft. Her eyes flutter open to watch him curiously, but when he goes to pull away her hand wraps around his wrist, holding him in place. She closes her eyes, and directs his hand over her face, wordlessly asking him to trace his fingertips along her nose, eyelids, the cut of her cheekbones, the bow of her lips.

He’s captivated by her. Her face is the picture of serenity, enjoying each tender caress like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s addictive, and it feeds him, holding him to the moment and folding away the darkest parts of himself, the self-loathing, the regret, and all the broken shards of him, tucked away and forgotten. There’s just her, and him, and the rest of the world is simply background noise.

When the countdown to the new year starts, a raucous yelling that reverberates through their surroundings, Betty opens her eyes and holds his gaze, and there’s a hint of a dare in her eyes. And he thinks, I could. I could kiss her, right now, and she’d let me.

As the crowd reaches ‘one’, followed by hoots and hollers and the distant sound of fireworks, he says, “Happy New Year.”

She smiles weakly, repeating it back to him, and the moment disappears.

His door bursts open, and JB is rushing at them in jubilation, shrieking at the top of her lungs and diving onto the bed with them. It breaks through the tension, and soon Betty is laughing along with JB, loud and unbidden in a way he’s never seen her before. Her eyes are glazed over and bloodshot, and her limbs flop onto the mattress like she’s attempting to bury herself in it.

JB leans over to Jughead and mock whispers, “Betty’s _stoned._” Her tone was amused, and Jughead quirked a brow at her.

“No shit. Also – you’re drunk,” he replies in a bored tone, wondering if he should roll another joint.

“Am not!” JB rises from the mattress, attempts to stand on one leg while touching the tip of her nose, and promptly falls over.

Betty starts laughing again, and JB is cackling from her crumpled heap on the floor, and Jughead thinks, _fuck it._ He smiles at his sister, happy and unconcerned, and just enjoys it, for a second.

Eventually, Amy drags JB back to the party, leaving Betty and Jughead alone once again. Betty seems tired, closing her eyes for long periods of time and frowning at the light in the room whenever opening them.

When she curls herself into the mattress on her side, he pulls a comforter up around her. “Go to sleep, Betts.” Even Jughead can hear the fondness of his tone, the nickname something new and falling from his mouth before he can stop it.

With her eyes closed and face curled delicately upon her clasped hands, she smiles and responds in a far-away tone, “Good night, Juggie.”

Something light and warm coils through him and he can’t stop his mouth from quirking to a smile. Slipping from the bed, he flicks the light off and arranges himself in his usual position on the floor. The pot well and truly worn off, he can hear the party rage on beyond his room, and doubts he’ll sleep a wink. It’s hard enough for him to fall asleep at the best of times, and the constant barrage of activity and noise certainly doesn’t constitute the best of times.

Resigned to his sleeplessness, he lets his mind pursue a train of thought he seldom allows, one where he kisses Betty at midnight, or where he can bring himself to lay next to her on the bed all night. He lets those thoughts carry him away in a waking dream, laying flat on his back with his gaze trained to the ceiling.

~~~

Betty wakes in parts, consciousness slowly coming to her. It takes her a moment to realise she’s not in her own bed. Her eyelids are heavy and her mouth dry, and suddenly she’s struck with how extremely thirsty she is. Groaning, she rolls over, attempting to sit up but only managing to slouch halfway, eyes open at half mast. 

“You okay?” Jughead asks, from his spot on the floor. Betty turns her head in his direction, groaning again at the movement.

“Need. Water,” she replies, the ability to form full sentences eluding her. 

Jughead snorts indelicately, and soon there’s a bottle in her hand. “There you go,” he offers, and she’s never experienced such extreme gratitude in her _life_. 

Gulping it down, she feels some dribbling down her chin but doesn’t have it in her to care. _God,_ she had not been that stoned in a very long time. She lets the water wake her up, and eventually starts to feel semi-normal. Becoming increasingly aware that she had slept, _all night,_ in Jughead’s bed, she turns to him.

“I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I kicked you out of your bed,” she says, gesturing to his place on the floor.

A look passes over his face, one that’s unreadable, before he replies, “It’s cool, believe me,” he pauses, clearing his throat. “I can… make some coffee, you want?”

The house is cluttered with people passed out on the floor, littered with empty bottles and full ashtrays. Betty watches as Jughead brews the coffee, the morning around them hushed and slow. She’s checking her phone, browsing Instagram, when a photo catches her eye.

Polly, Jason, and the kids. All in a photo together, with the caption _‘family reunion’_. Betty snorts. “Oh, my God,” she exclaims.

Jughead looks up from where he’s pouring coffee, concern etching his face. “Everything alright?” he asks.

Betty shoves the picture in front of his nose, shooting a _ ‘what the fuck’ _ expression at him.

“What the fuck,” he states, clearly bemused. 

_“Right?” _she responds, grateful for the validation. So much for Polly being cautious. She closes her eyes, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, the way her therapist had taught her. She reminds herself that it’s Polly’s decision, even if it sits so wrong with her, she can’t change it and she’s not responsible for Polly. It calms her somewhat, and she’s able to drink the coffee that had been placed in front of her.

Her and Jughead exchange little conversation, both of them clearly occupied in their own thoughts, and it’s nice. Gentle. She feels a kind of comfort in their quiet companionship, and her mind drifts to the night before. 

Betty had been so sure that something might happen between them, especially with the way he had touched her, so reverently. She had seen the look in his eyes. She was _sure _she hadn’t been imagining it. 

Something is standing in his way, and she has no idea what it is, or how to ask.

~

When Betty gets home, Polly is nowhere to be found. She gets a text, though, close to dinner time.

_Kids and I are staying at Thornhill, we’re fine. P xx_

Rolling her eyes, she makes herself dinner, feeling the claustrophobic silence of her large, empty home compressing on her. It gives her time to think, to obsess, and her thoughts start racing.

She hadn’t initially planned on attending JB’s New Years’ party, despite telling JB she’d stop by. But she had spent an hour at the Pembrooke among Archie, Veronica, and all her paired up, married friends and immediately wanted to be elsewhere. Driving to JB and Jughead’s had been almost an involuntary choice, the pull of her gut guiding her. 

The decision to stay in Jughead’s room, to be so immersed in _him,_ had crushed and splintered any walls she had carefully constructed, and she had laid herself before him, sending every non-verbal signal she could.

She wasn’t clueless. She may struggle with her self-esteem at times, but the building tension between her and Jughead had become so much that she just knew it was not one-sided on her part. So, last night, when she had all but kissed him, and he pulled away… it was painful, the attention she paid to him. Her thoughts went back to him, their time together, replaying over and over again like a movie she couldn’t turn off. 

Frustrated with herself, she bakes. She makes Christmas cookies, and almond croissants, and chocolate ganache. Losing herself in it, she collapses into her bed at three a.m, still restless, tossing and turning until she falls into a broken slumber.

When the third of January comes, she is full of gratitude for the distraction of work again. Polly had not been home since New Year’s Eve, and Jughead was still occupying far too much of her waking (and sleeping) thoughts. It was _embarrassing_, this teenage feeling. 

Jughead continued to come into the store for breakfast, writing away at his laptop when Betty wasn’t commandeering his attention in conversation. He’d leave for work, then pick JB up at the end of the day. They talked, but they never talked about what was between them, and it grated on her. The feeling of being in-between.

She’d never had much patience before for the unknown.

It’s late January when Veronica holds one of her extravagant dinner parties, and this time, she graciously extends the invite to the Jones’. 

When Jughead tells Betty, he opens with the conclusion that he would not attend. Betty gaped at him in horror. “Are you kidding? Do you want to get blackballed?” she asked, not even halfway joking. She loved Veronica, but the woman was _formidable_.

Jughead shoved his hands in his pockets, as they strode alongside each other next to Sweetwater river. Their walks had become a routine, Betty trading her evening runs for time spent wandering next to him. “Exactly. It’s not really… I don’t even understand why I was invited in the first place,” he explained, clearly mystified.

Betty rolled her eyes, fond. “Jug,” she uses his nickname, the familiarity between them warming her somewhere deep inside. “V is _trying_. Which, as you know, does not happen for many people. I wouldn’t throw it away,” she advises, knowing that part of Veronica’s attempts of friendship with Jughead were for _her_, not just Archie. It was impossibly sweet, for Veronica.

He frowned and characteristically, he shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t respond, which she supposed meant he’d at least think about it.

The night of the party, she’s still unsure of whether he’ll show. He hadn’t RSVP’d, but JB had on his behalf, so thankfully Veronica’s wrath had been deterred. 

Pembrooke had been decorated floor to ceiling in rich burgundy drapery and was lit up by what must be thousands of tea light candles, giving the space a rich, medieval feel. 

The place was crowded, full of the ‘anybody who’s anybody’ of Riverdale. Betty sipped her wine, listening in to the small chatter around her, standing with the Keller’s and Veronica, Tom Keller discussing some boxing match. She kept an eye on the door, anxious for the appearance of one person in particular. 

When he finally arrives, JB and Amy in tow, he’s clearly gone to some effort with his clothing, dressed in a black suit and tie, just a little loose on him. She briefly wonders if he went shopping for this. 

“Excuse me,” she says, exiting her conversation to walk toward the Jones’. 

“Betty!” JB exclaims, rushing toward her. She’s dressed in a red and black plaid dress, platform Doc Martens on her feet. 

“JB, Amy,” she greets, “Jughead. You came.”

Jughead’s eyes are flitting around the room, landing on something behind her that makes them widen and causes his stance to straighten. “Yeah, well,” he offers, crossing his arms, the picture of discomfort.

“I spy drinks!” Amy states, dragging JB away. Betty is left with Jughead, who looks like he’s considering making a run for it.

She spies an empty couch, somewhat removed from the rest of the party, and gestures toward it with a nod of her head. He loosens, shooting her a grateful smile, and they head there together. 

“Jelly dragged me, I was, uh. Going to give tonight a miss,” he explained. His eyes scanned the room, attention half with her and half on every other person there.

“I’m glad she did. Veronica does not take kindly to people RSVPing and then not attending. _Trust me_, I’ve heard it firsthand.” 

Jughead frowns. “But I didn’t RSVP,” he says.

“Yeah, um. JB did for you,” Betty explains.

“Oh. Well. I guess that explains why she was so persistent.”

Betty notes his stance, so rigid, and it hits her how relaxed he had become around her. It’s only here, among all these people that the stark contrast between this and his normal body language around her is so obvious. It warms her, the knowledge he’s comfortable around her, but it saddens her too. He shouldn’t have to feel so on guard, so vigilant. 

She breathes in, wanting to be a calming presence for him. “Look, I know this is not your favorite way to spend your time, but… I’m glad you’re here,” she says, looking up at him in earnest, wanting to convey that she knows it’s a big deal that he showed.

He swallows deeply, casting his gaze across her face, lingering on where her dress opens at her collarbone. She feels a flash of warmth over her whole body, stomach clenching, not unpleasantly. 

“Yeah, um…” He scratches the back of his neck, expression turning shy. “You, uh. You look nice, by the way.”

And like that, she’s blushing like a child, heat filling her cheeks and it’s unbearable, she just wants to be _closer_ to him. 

“Thank you,” she responds, equally shy. 

“More than nice,” he adds, tone gentle, quiet, as if the words were pulled from him involuntarily.

She holds his gaze, neither of them blinking, the roar of the crowd rushing back when a sharp, abrupt voice cuts through their tension.

“Jughead Jones.”

Cheryl Blossom stands before them, clad in a leopard print three-piece suit, a look of deep ire in her eyes.

“And you, _Betty Cooper_,” she adds, tone unwavering in it’s accusation.

All at once, Jughead is on his feet, rushing toward the door. 

“You _would_ run, miscreant,” Cheryl proclaims, loudly, drawing further attention to them. Slowly, conversation dies down, and the eyes of almost everybody are flicking between where Jughead is heading for the exit and where Cheryl is standing.

Confused, Betty follows after Jughead, shooting a look at Cheryl that she _hopes_ conveys the depth of her dislike.

She catches up to him at the elevator, having to run, yelling after him. 

“Jug!”

He stops at the sound of her voice, hands clenching and unclenching. He stops his movement, but doesn’t turn. When Betty is by his side, she sees his face. It’s stormy, and when he turns his eyes on her it’s clear his mind is a million miles away. Or many years ago, as the case may be.

“Juggie?” she tries, stepping carefully in front of him, trying to be as gentle as she can.

Something ripples through him, and his face falls, hand wiping over his brow. _“Fuck_,” he says, voice shaking. 

She wants to ask. She _needs_ to ask. But her priority, suddenly, becomes wanting to shelter the man before her, who looks lost, and broken, and like he’s been hit somewhere painful. 

They drive a while in her car, ending up as they normally do at Sweetwater river. 

The blanket of night and forest provides a peaceful juxtaposition to whatever is raging inside Jughead, and he undoes his seatbelt, slouching forward in his seat, putting his face in his hands. 

“Fuck, I just left Jellybean,” he worries, clearly distressed, tugging at his hair and loosening his tie, looking for all the world like he’s struggling to breathe.

“It’s okay,” Betty offers, opening a text message on her phone.

_Tell Jug I’m fine, and I’ve got the keys to the truck so Amy can drive us home._

She shows Jughead, carefully scrolling up so he doesn’t see the one after, that reads _please look after him, Betty_.

Jughead exhales, nodding. He stares out at the river for a long time, letting silence surround them. Betty waits.

He smooths his hands over his knees, shoulders curved forward. Eventually, he breaks the silence.

It’s always here he confides in her, and she listens, captivated, attention solely on the man in front of her. 

“Do you…” he starts, swallowing, looking at her with a searching expression. “You know why I was sent to prison?”

She shakes her head, and he seems surprised. She explains, “I wanted… I figured that’s something for you to tell me,” she stops, looking away and lifting a shoulder in a shrug, ‘if you ever wanted to.”

“_Betty_,” he states, voice stammering. He clears his throat, and she covers his hands with her own, where they’re clenched together in front of him. 

There’s a beat. Silence, but for the wind in the trees around them.

He begins.

“Years ago, the Serpents learned about the Blossoms smuggling drugs through their businesses.” He stops, looking over at her, adding, “I don’t know if Jason was ever involved, but he never worked for the family business officially, so maybe he doesn’t want anything to do with it.” 

Betty nods, understanding he’s trying to reassure her, but feeling nothing but trepidation. He continues.

“I… I’m not proud, but we were going to steal from them. Take over the trade. But we needed to clear their stock first. Some of the other Serpents and I, we had a plan. To leave the Blossoms out of pocket, to gain some power back in Riverdale,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Stupid. But… I was desperate. Dad was still drinking, Mom had just died—” Betty gasped, but Jughead continued, thoughts fully immersed in the past, “and JB and I were weeks away from being homeless, losing our trailer, and I…” he trailed off, pausing, looking over at Betty.

“I wanted the Blossoms to pay. Their drugs… my mom had been involved with it, and she couldn’t handle it. She overdosed, and I blamed them.” He breathed noisily, like it was a chore, leaning an elbow on the car door, resting his head on his knuckles.

“Anyway… a friend of mine, she had trusted Cheryl. We all thought Cheryl had been disowned, and she spent some time with the Serpents. But the night of… something was off. I fucking _knew _something was off.

“We got to the warehouse, where we had scoped out only days before, and everything, all the drugs were gone. Only maple syrup was left, and the entire place looked like a legitimate business. Worse, there had been cameras installed. I noticed them first, and I was the first one in the building. I told everyone to run, but there was no stopping the fact that my face was clearly caught on camera.

“They arrested me the next day. Turned out Cheryl had found out everything, and used the information to get back on the good side of her family. They got me for burglary, and I pretended I’d been working alone, but nobody bought it. Still, because I wouldn’t name anyone, I went down harder.” He exhales, finally. He looks over at Betty, who hadn’t looked away from him, not once, during his entire confession. 

“It’s my fault. I made a stupid decision, I know that. But… Cheryl Blossom, she—”

“She’s a bitch,” Betty interjects, voice stern. The word, venomous, one Betty almost never uses, falls from her mouth easy. 

Jughead raises a brow, quirking his lip in amusement. “I guess that’s one word for it.”

There’s a pregnant pause, both breathing the weight of the words between them in, Betty evaluating her response carefully. This was huge, Jughead’s trust in her. 

Jughead cleared his throat, and shifted in his seat. “The thing about my friend… that she’s the one who told Cheryl. The Serpents don’t know that. No one does…” he pauses, giving Betty an imploring look.

Betty nods, understanding. Besides, who would she tell?_ Why_ would she tell?

“Jug,” she finally opens, reaching for him again, brushing her hand over his fist. “Thank you for telling me.”

His eyes catch hers, and she continues, “I can’t pretend to understand… but, I. It doesn’t change anything, for me, about how I see you. You should know that.” She stops, chewing on her bottom lip, swallowing heavily. 

He holds her gaze, and nods. It’s small, but it’s understanding. He laces his fingers through hers, and doesn’t let go the whole drive home.

~


	4. Just another recovering heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: panic attacks, grief and triggering anniversaries, unhealthy coping mechanisms
> 
> Also, we start earning our E rating. 
> 
> Thank you for all your support, your comments have been so incredible, especially because this was just a personal thing i started and abandoned so long ago. Thank you all so much :)
> 
> Song title from little of your love by Haim

_You say nothing is ever as good as it seems, stop running your mouth like that, cause you know I’m gonna give it right back._

_— little of your love, Haim_

~~~

The month of February creeps past her, leaving Betty with whiplash. Between her at times explosive interactions with Polly, who had proceeded head first into being fully deranged, and her restrained, slow, tentative steps toward nowhere with Jughead. 

After the night of Veronica’s party, Jughead had retreated. The town had been abuzz with rumor, and as a result Jughead had stopped coming into the bakery, had stopped venturing anywhere except for work altogether. When Betty saw him it was at his place, and while they talked, she could tell he was wary. He approached her with caution, steering conversation toward her, closing himself off little by little.

She could feel a wall being constructed between them and had no clue how to break it down.

After finding out more about the Blossoms, Betty had tried to warn Polly, while still trying to maintain Jughead’s confidence, but Polly had refused to listen. The last argument between them had ended in both women exasperated and hurt somewhere vulnerable.

Aside from the occasional babysitting, she felt she hardly saw her family anymore. 

For the first time in a long time, she felt truly lonely. While she still had Veronica, and at times Kevin, there were things she couldn’t discuss with them. That weren’t her secrets to tell, or that were things she herself couldn’t explain.

It made her exceptionally grateful for her friendship with JB, who remained consistent in her demeanour, seemingly always bouncing with energy and new ideas. 

Which is why, when Betty received the notice from Amy that she needed to quit, she was thrown completely off guard. 

The young girl had been apologetic, but firm, and with an abrupt end to it all, she had left town. 

She finds JB, after work one day, scrubbing the booths clean with tears streaking her face. Betty’s heartbeat shifts and shakes in response, and she wraps her arms around her as the young girl sobs into her shoulder, body quaking with heartbreak.

Amy’s left for graduate school, as it turns out.

JB finds her crash landing at Betty’s, curled around a truly impressive glass of wine, crying quietly on the couch. Betty wrings her hands together, trying to find a way to comfort her, but coming up with nothing.

“This fucking sucks,” JB mutters, wiping at her eyes. Her voice is wrought and she places her glass down, rubbing at her eyelids, mascara and eyeliner smudged on her cheeks without a care. “Like, what the fuck? I’ve never…” Her voice trails off as her face crumples again, and her body jolts with a violent sob, unbidden.

Betty wraps her up in her arms once again, rubbing soothing circles into her back. 

JB’s right. It just _sucks_.

When JB has calmed somewhat, Betty shifts, and JB rests her head on Betty’s shoulder, continuing what she had begun earlier. “I’ve never felt like this about _anybody_, you know? And…” she pauses, shifting a little in her seat. “And not to mention it’s fucking _college_, you know.” Her voice is bitter, and, yeah.

Betty kinda thinks she gets it now.

~

A week goes by, and what would have been her parents' wedding anniversary, always a cause for celebration when they had been alive, loomed near. As a result, she throws herself, with the same manic energy with which she usually reserved for baking, into her new distraction— researching financial aid and college options for JB. Specifically, options close to the school Amy will be attending in NYC.

It helped, focusing on something else, on someone else’s life. It’s a good outlet, for a while.

But the date draws closer. She starts losing sleep again, and with Polly and the kids absent more often than not, she loses herself a little, reaching for the bottle of wine before bed again.

It scares the shit out of her.

She doesn’t open the shop on the day of the anniversary, shuts her phone off, and hides under her bed covers. It’s exactly the kind of _irresponsibility _her mother would have reprimanded her for.

_”Oh, you’re so emotional, Elizabeth,”_ her mother would say, tone reproachful.

Her dad would probably frown deeply at her,_ “Betty, what will the neighbors think?”_ he would ask, having spent every second of his life so deeply paranoid about the opinions of people who do not matter.

Betty is just… still so fucking angry, and it comes in fits, raging through her. She’d been trying to use all the coping strategies she’d worked on in therapy, but on that day, on _that_ day, she didn’t have it in her to try a thing.

So she hides. 

There’s a knock on her door, sometime around midday. Polly’s home, eyes red-rimmed, the kids subdued and trailing in after her. They don’t speak, but they pile on Betty’s bed, wrapping around each other. It’s Beth who speaks first, in a whisper.

“I miss grandma,” she says, and Polly puts her head in her hands, crying quietly. Kyle just stares at the wall, frown on his face, arms crossed. 

“Kyle? You alright, sweetheart?” Betty asks, voice hoarse from lack of use. The little boy shrugs with exaggeration, frown deepening. Betty continues, talking to both the kids now, “It’s okay to miss them. I miss them all the time, you know.”

“Me too,” Polly adds, looking at Betty.

It’s complicated, for them. They had both grown up in the same house, with the controlling behaviour and judgmental comments and paranoia. But they also shared the good times. When Alice had moments of kindness, when Hal taught the girls how to fix an engine. Their love was bounded together in shades of grey, a combination of anger, fear, and love. Nobody in the world understood what Betty was going through right then more than Polly.

So, despite their disagreement as of late, they curled into each other, providing what comfort they could.

Later, when the kids were in bed, the exhaustion of the day catching up to them all, Betty finds herself in the kitchen with Polly, sipping on a mug of cocoa. Things had been quiet for a while, but eventually Polly breaks the silence. 

“I know things have been challenging, for you. With me seeing Jason. I know you think I’m moving too fast. But I can’t keep fighting with you, Betty. I wish you could just… trust that something could work out, for me, for us—” Betty opens her mouth to interject, feeling defensive, but Polly cuts her off, “Can we _please,_ just…” Polly trails off, shifting her mug from hand to hand. And there’s this look on her face, like she’s exhausted, like she actually just can’t keep arguing about the same thing again and again. 

Betty starts to realise she feels the same way. There’s a pause, while Betty mulls it over, trying to gain some clarity. It takes almost everything in her when she says, quietly but firmly, “Truce?” like they used to when they were young. The sisters share a look, both disarmed, and things are okay again, for a while.

Polly spends more time at the house, explaining that Jason would be going back to L.A soon, that he’d extended his holiday as long as he could. They don’t mention what they’re both thinking — _what happens next?_ — it’s a sore spot, something they avoid like a pothole in the road, or an ulcer in the mouth.

Neglecting her frustration with her sister allows her more time to obsess over the state of things with Jughead, who seemed to be avoiding _her_ like she was his own sore spot.

It stung in a way she had never before experienced, Jughead ignoring her texts, granting her nothing but a mere wave and greeting if she ever stopped by his house with JB, always running, _running_ from her, hiding away in his room, in his own head, in his own space. It stung, and then it ached like a wound she’d let fester.

Enough was enough.

~~~

Dry heaving into the toilet bowl after emptying the contents of his stomach, Jughead feels cold sweat tracing down his neck, the vile taste in his mouth sharp and making him gag and cough, slouching on the floor with his head in his hands.

He’s _wrecked_.

Trying to take a nap after work, he’d attempted to sleep in his bed, rather than his usual spot on the floor. But his heart had raced and his breath had been lost and before he knew what was happening he’d been overcome with inexplicable panic, sheer terror striking him in little cuts over and again. Collapsed against the wall in the bathroom, exhausted and ashamed, the sting of tears collecting at his ducts he clenches his eyes shut, shoving it all down. 

There was no reason, none that he could comprehend or easily point to, why he couldn’t rest anywhere but a hard surface anymore. When he forced it, when he tried to sleep in an actual bed, it always ended the same. A panic attack and the distinct hopelessness and embarrassment that always followed. He sits there a while, just getting his breath even, trying to keep his thoughts clear.

The front door opens and closes and voices drift down the hall, soft and feminine, and his gut clenches when he realises it’s Betty, talking quietly with JB. He can’t make out their conversation, hushed. Betty had been dropping JB off from work more and more, and every time she would linger, shooting him imploring looks. 

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. After Veronica’s party, his confession to her, he’d been messed up. The defences he’d built up felt like they’d been stripped away, torn from him. And she’d been so _kind_. So understanding. Her gentle acceptance, her affectionate touch, he’d felt it bone deep. 

Then he’d woken the next day, and he knew that distance was the only thing that could protect him any longer. That could protect _her_, from him and his mess of a life. 

Shuddering with the cold, he washes his face, his teeth, gargles mouthwash. Pops some Tylenol and dry swallows, shaking his shoulders before opening the door, bracing himself.

When he gets to their living room, JB looks up at him, wide-eyed, and shoves some kind of paper in her bag. He furrows his brow, wondering but not asking.

“Hi, Jughead,” Betty greets, voice clear and breaking his gaze that was trained on JB. 

And, fuck. Seeing her is like a punch to the gut, it always is, but with the state he’d been in before her arrival, it was more like a bat to the head. 

Her soft blonde curls framed her face, and his eyes swept over her, drinking her in. His heart raced, but rather than panic, he felt calm. Settled. Her effect on him hadn’t lessened during his self-imposed exile from her, and it was beginning to feel like a futile effort.

“Betts,” he says, quietly, before catching himself. Clearing his throat, he corrects, “Betty. Hi.”

She stands, suddenly, with a chaotic energy buzzing around her. “We need to talk,” she states, abruptly, hands balled into fists at her sides. Eyeing her tense stance, catching her eyes, unable to look away, he freezes.

“Uh,” he responds, pathetically. 

JB snorts, somewhere nearby but he can’t, he can’t look at her right now. “I’m gonna go to my room,” his sister exclaims, loudly, walking around them.

When her bedroom door slams, like a statement, it seems to propel Betty into action. She steps closer, right in front of him, looking him dead in the eye. “You’ve been avoiding me, Jughead.” Her tone is accusing, and there’s hurt there, and fuck. It cuts.

He slumps, crossing his arms, looking away from her. “I…” he trails off uselessly.

“Why? What did—” her voice breaks, “What did I _do_?”

Falling onto the couch, he slouches over, elbows on his knees. Releasing a heavy exhale, he fidgets with the fraying seams of his jeans, eyes trained to the floor.

“It’s not— you didn’t,” he pauses, swallowing, before trying again. “I just needed…”

She comes to sit next to him, and he can feel her eyes on him, and he’s at a crossroads. He doesn’t know how to avoid this, avoid her any longer. 

But he doesn’t know how to move forward, how to make it _not hurt_, when things inevitably fall apart between them. JB is the _only person_ who he’s trusted, that’s never let him down. Who he’s terrified of letting down. That kind of connection, it makes him want to curl up on the floor and hide from the world. It’s terrifying, just having that kind of fear about the love he has for his _sister_. Betty, she’s an unknown. Something new. He doesn’t _do_ this, never has.

Where do they even start?

She clears her throat, nudging his knee with her hand. When he looks up at her, her eyes are questioning, and it feels like she can see right through him. He’s never felt so seen in his entire life.

He covers. “I needed some space… after everything. It’s not, it wasn’t…” he stops. “It wasn’t about you, specifically. I just needed to… get some perspective.”

Betty mouths the word after him, whispering, “Perspective?”

He leaves the question unanswered, and he can sense Betty deflate next to him. He feels awful, and the bile in his throat threatens him again, and he can’t fucking do this. Any of it. 

“Jug…” she offers, tentative. She sighs, heavy, resigned. “You can have time. It’s okay, but. Just…” she stops. She’s choosing her words, being careful.

He’s never wanted to kiss her more.

“Just don’t shut me out, _please_. I… you don’t know how it feels, when you do that.” Her voice is small, and he nods, closing his eyes against the emotion that’s running through him. 

He holds his hand open on his knee, palm up. An offering.

She takes it. 

He squeezes her hand, rubbing a thumb over hers, her skin soft and addicting beneath his. 

His mind races through every instance, every time she caught him when he felt like he’d been falling, and decides on honesty. “This is…” he lifts their joined hands lightly, gesturing, “this is new for me, and I…” he looks at her, praying she gets it. 

She smiles, something small. “Yeah, Juggie.” She squeezes his hand back, replying in that gentle way she does, the way that makes him think that maybe, with her, he’ll be okay. “I know.”

~~~

The doorbell is ringing. From her spot near the kitchen table, she glances at the oven clock.

It reads 23:56.

Whoever is at the door is clearly impatient, and also clearly doesn’t know (or care) that their household is inhabited by two young children who are easily woken.

Anxiety fills the pit of her stomach, as she knows intimately that visits or calls late at night can only mean bad things, so she rushes to the door as the doorbell continues its incessant chiming. 

As she passes the staircase that leads up to the bedrooms, she hears Polly whispering down from the top stair in an angry hush, “Who on earth could that be?”

“I don’t know, but don’t worry — I’ll get it. Go back to bed,” Betty replies at a similar volume. “I’ll come get you if it’s an emergency.”

When she opens the door, any expectations she may have had are washed away. Standing there, clad in his characteristic leather and beanie, is Jughead. The look on his face, however, is decidedly uncharacteristic. He’s glaring at her, barely contained fury quaking over his face, creasing lines in his forehead and tensing the cut of his jaw. She sucks in a breath, shocked, and certain he has never once looked at her like that before.

“Jughead?”

He shoves something into her chest, and on instinct her hands reach up — college brochures. Oh.

“What the hell were you thinking?” his voice, quiet in a way that signifies he’s trying really hard to not yell, is accusatory and cold.

She’s confused. Looking between Jughead’s face and the handful of brochures in her hand, the ones she had given JB only a week before, she tries to grasp the gravity of the situation as it appears to Jughead. Tries, and fails.

“I – I don’t understand,” she admits, shaking her head at him. She feels a lump in her throat despite herself. Confrontation has never been her strong suit, and she struggles with people being mad at her. Especially when it feels so entirely unwarranted.

_Especially when you have feelings for them, _her mind supplies.

He becomes animated in his anger at that, hands flailing in front of him and voice rising despite his attempted control. “Of course you don’t!” he snaps loudly. This causes Betty to step out onto the front steps and close the door behind her, not before pointedly looking behind her at the darkened, quiet household.

He appears slightly chagrined at that, and does lower his voice, but continues. “Of course you don’t,” he repeats, shaking his head and glaring at her like he’s been utterly betrayed. “You had no right to do this. To put these ideas into her head – we’re not…” he sucks in a breath, looking away from her and his voice goes lower, deeper. It’s more frightening than the yelling. “We’re not some project for you to work on. We’re not your problem.”

Betty can’t even begin to comprehend his point, and says so. “What is _that _supposed to mean?”

He looks back down at her. “College has never been an option for JB. Financially, academically… don’t you think if it were an option she would have gone by now?” he pauses briefly, seeming to consider something. “You’re setting her up for disappointment. It’s irresponsible.”

_Irresponsible?_ finally, Betty finds her voice.

“Irresponsib—_No_. That’s not fair, Jughead. She... she _asked_ me for my advice.” His eyes widen at that, but she keeps talking. She’s more than a little indignant now, although still shaking like a leaf as she usually does in the face of conflict. “And, secondly, there are financial aid options for _all_ of the programs I suggested, and — and she’s smart, and talented! Any of those schools would be lucky to have her!”

He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest, his shoulders rising as though he’s attempting to shrink into himself. “It’s not a question of intelligence. Or talent.”

She frowns deeply at him, mirroring his stance as her arms come up to cross over her chest. The brochures dig into her arms and scratch under her chin.

Softer, now, she replies, “What _is_ it about, then?”

Sighing, he softens. Her eyes drifted over him, following the trace of his Adam’s apple as he swallows heavily. He catches her gaze, and something flickers in his expression, something that sends heat coiling through her. There’s something vulnerable about them, in this moment, something blunt and frank in a way they haven’t been with each other before. It feels pivotal.

“It’s… It’s not that simple. Things don’t just work out because you want them to.”

“So, what? That means you shouldn’t even try?” She gets the distinct impression they’re talking about more than just JB and college, now.

He shrugs, noncommittal, but it’s as good as an affirmation. All of a sudden she’s overcome with sadness. Silence lingers in the space between them, a valley of unasked questions and unspoken answers.

“Leaving Riverdale has never really worked out for my family,” he opens, vague and with an air like he’s trying to impress some very important piece of information upon her. “If she tries, and is let down or rejected, it would crush her. I know it would.” 

Yeah, they’re definitely not just talking about JB anymore.

She takes a step closer to him, setting the brochures in her arms on the shoe rack beside them and reaching out, resting a hand on his forearm. “Jug.” She tries to match his tone, tries to say without saying that she _understands,_ but that letting _him_ down, rejecting him, is the last thing she wants to do. So, she urges, and as good as professes her own desire. “If this is something that she wants, it’s _her_ risk to take.” She sucks in a breath, going for broke.

Because it’s as true for JB as it is for Betty.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his arms fall to his sides. She slides her hand down with him, and with a deep breath and all the courage she possesses, laces her fingers through his, a move so familiar for them now.

Apparently, she’s not done with being brave tonight, because she takes another step forward, close enough that if he wants to, if he can put aside whatever masochistic, self-deprecating insecurity is stopping him, he could press his lips to hers.

He’s leaning forward, and looking into her eyes now, a question there. “It… It could end badly.” But he sounds uncertain, and hope springs in her chest, vibrating through her and propelling her forward.

She pushes up on her toes, his mouth so close to hers she can feel breath leaving him in heavy exhales against hers.

Eyes flicking between his mouth and his eyes, she challenges, “It’d be worth the risk, though.”

His mouth is on hers in a second. She gasps, because despite this moment so obviously leading to this, the shock of him – his lips on hers, his hair beneath her fingers where her hands have landed at the nape of his neck, his body pressing along hers – is more than she could have ever imagined.

He groans into her mouth as their tongues meet, his hands on her hips gripping impossibly tight as he pushes back into her, walking them backwards until she’s pressed against the front door. She arches into him, giving herself over to the sensation, of sigh matching sigh, lips suckling and biting, her hands holding him against her as if she knows that if she lets go he might disappear.

Their kiss turns bruising as he swallows her soft moans, their teeth knocking and noses bumping in their matched eagerness to be closer, clumsy with want. It’s imperfect and unsophisticated and rough, his lips chapped and the skin of his neck hot and clammy beneath her hands.

She’s jammed between him and the front door, shamelessly pushing her hips into him to get close, close, _closer,_ and it feels like every passing glance between them, every barely there touch, every suppressed moment of longing, is pouring out of them in this moment. It’s chaotic and heavy, and she feels it deep in her lungs like smoke, choking her and causing her to pant and moan against him.

He answers her every sound, his hands wandering now, mapping the traces of her body over her thin nightshirt.

The night air is cool on her skin, the streets are quiet, and the only light is coming from the streetlights, far enough from the house that everything around them is suffused in shadow.

In a moment of frightening agility, he hoists her legs around his waist, hands sliding along the expanse of her milky thighs, sliding just beneath her pyjama shorts. She moans, loud, and it reverberates through the night. She feels undone, and grinds helplessly into him, desperate for more, harder,_ now._

He’s licking filthily into her mouth, and her hands scramble at his back, desperately lifting his shirt and tracing his spine. His hands on her legs splay just beneath the curve of her ass, kneading and massaging the skin there. She presses her heels into the backs of his knees, trying to collapse him further into her. He falls slowly but there’s no space to go, so her intention is met and he’s simply pushed even tighter between her legs.

Gasping for breath, she lifts her mouth from his, and the fresh air stings her raw, kiss-bitten lips. His mouth doesn’t leave her, simply moves down her neck, trailing his tongue down the line of her throat, moving up to nibble on her jaw. She rests her head against the door with a soft clunk, giving him further access as he bites and suckles the sensitive parts of her neck. She can feel her pulse in her ears and a deep, desperate throbbing in between her legs. She’s falling apart beneath him, needing to press her legs together just to gain some friction but wholly incapable of extricating herself from him.

She growls when he lifts his head from her, shoving her hands into his hair and knocking his beanie to the ground as she brings his mouth to hers once more. He makes a shocked, dazed kind of moan in response and sinks into her again; kissing her like he’s afraid to ever stop.

Feeling emboldened with the fraught energy rushing between them, she slips her hands from his soft hair, that she’s unwittingly knotted between her fingers, to slide between them and rub at the front of his jeans.

She feels his arms quake where they are against her, and he breathes heavily into her mouth, jolting his hips away from her hands slightly. 

He wasn’t hard.

It takes her a moment to process, the realization coming to her slowly.

_That’s okay_, she thinks. Lots of guys don’t get hard, sometimes. Right?

It happens.

She pulls her mouth from his, trying to search his face, but he simply looks down and she can feel him closing in on himself, and she’s still so _turned on _because her body cannot keep up with the change in mood, and she wants to fucking _cry_ when he pulls his arms from beneath her legs and sets her back down on the ground, putting space between them.

Her heart is still pounding and breath is leaving her in staccato shakes, so when she tries to speak it’s with a broken voice. “S-sorry, I – I didn’t mean…” Didn’t mean what? Of course she had meant it. What was she supposed to say in this situation?

He clears his throat, and looks up at her. His face is closed, expression wary, but there’s a heat in his eyes still that leaves her breathless. 

“Don’t worry about it.” His voice is not much better than hers, which calms her somewhat. She still gets the impression she’s done something horribly wrong, however, and can’t quite shake it.

She reaches for him, and he flinches beneath her touch and her heart stutters in her chest at that, but he doesn’t back away. After a few seconds, he melts into her, pushing his forehead onto hers and dusting soft kisses along her face. It’s miles away from the passion just moments ago, and it gives her emotional whiplash. She’s caught between wanting to jump his bones and cradle him in her arms forever.

He offers no explanation for what has occurred, and she doesn’t ask for one. Doesn’t really feel she’s owed one, in truth.

And if she’s being honest with herself, she’s scared. 

He presses his lips to hers, close mouthed this time, before pulling away. “I should go home.” He says it like it’s a question, and all she wants to say is _no, don’t._ But she’s unsteady and shaken and he’s not telling her… something, she doesn’t know what, but there’s _something, _and it’s… it’s just not the right time.

So she kisses him one last time, with a sense of finality, and tells him,_ “Okay,” _Okay, you can run away. Okay, you can leave me here.

And so he does.

~

She wants to scream and yell and cry because everything with them was two steps forward and three steps back. Instead, she closes the door quietly behind her, and treads softly up to her bedroom. She texts Polly, _everything’s fine_, before settling herself beneath the smooth cotton of her sheets, closing her eyes and letting out a loaded sigh.

She rubs her thighs together, a dull ache between her legs a reminder of the way he had felt, the way he had kissed her, the way he had touched her.

The way he had pulled away, how she had fucked up, how she had let him walk away.

She turns her face into her pillow and groans quietly, frustrated in a variety of ways.

She tries to sleep. She really does. But the memory of him is too vivid, and she hasn’t been with someone in _years. _And she’s not sure she’s ever felt the way she did with him, the desire so relentless and brazen.

There’s really nothing for it, she’s not getting much sleep until she does something about the heat still burning in the depths of her lower abdomen.

Rolling over, she bends to slip her shorts and underwear off, biting her lip as the cool sheets touch her heat. She pulls open the drawer at her night table, procuring her small bullet vibrator, sleek, discreet, and she hopes fully charged.

It was something she had purchased years and years ago, when she was still married. Her sexual relationship with Mark had been more of a once-a-year-on-birthdays kind of thing quite early on in their marriage. And even then, she’d often found it unfulfilling and, truthfully, a bit of a chore.

Eventually she had grown restless and in need of something to get her through. She’d done a lot of internet research in incognito windows, made pro and con lists of all the different types out there (and there were a _lot), _and eventually ordered something online.

She remembered the first time she used it, home alone because Mark was out watching some game with his friends, and she’d come so many times and so intensely she’d had to change the sheets before he came home.

After that, whenever she did end up having sex with him, she would sneak off to the bathroom afterward, under the guise of showering, and finish herself off with her little toy.

Now, she slides it down to rest on her clit, turning it to the lowest setting. The soft vibrations instantly begin working the tension from her body, relaxing her and sinking her deeper into the mattress. She runs her other hand down her stomach and to her entrance, which is hot and dripping wet, remembering the way Jughead had moaned into her mouth. She slides a finger inside herself as the vibrator works on her clit. Soon she’s bucking her hips for more, so she ups the volume of vibration and pushes the bullet harder, rolling it in constant, small, semi-circles.

She thinks of what it would be like to have had his mouth sink lower, to have had him push her shorts down and run his mouth along her slit, licking into her, suckling on her clit like he had on her neck. The memory of him so close combined with the fantasy drives her higher to the edge, and she puts the vibration on the highest setting, turning her face into her pillow and allowing hot, unsteady breaths to leave her, escaping into the air of her room.

The sounds of her breathing and hidden moans along with the gentle constant vibrations surround her and it sounds fucking _filthy,_ and she has to remember she’s not alone in the house, she has to keep quiet.

Soon, her thighs are quaking, and her hips are bucking involuntarily as she pushes down, putting further friction along that throbbing bundle of nerves while she pulses a finger in a constant rhythm inside of her, working herself to the breaking point.

Sweat drips from her forehead and she can feel it sliding down her nose, her whole body too hot. Her shirt feels like a restraint and every muscle in her body is tense. She imagines he’s there with her, that he’s the one controlling the toy, bringing her to her orgasm.

And that’s it, that’s the thought that does it. She arches her back, her mouth open in a silent scream, and feels the tension build and build, coiling around her and then snapping on the brink, folding her in on herself as she releases, sharp relief passes through her and she drops onto the mattress full bodily, molding herself to it as she feels a bone deep relaxation.

She calms her breathing and enjoys the waves of calm and euphoria melting along her body, before removing her vibrator, wiping it clean with the wipes she keeps in her drawer, and tucking it back into its hiding place.

She runs her legs along the sheets, all her senses feeling slightly out-of-focus except for touch, which is heightened. She slides her undergarments and shorts back onto her body, before settling back down, turning her head to the side with a soft, gentle sigh.

Despite herself, she’s asleep within minutes.

~


	5. Baby i just wanna be yours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My playlist for this fic can be found here: [.](https://open.spotify.com/user/crawledoutofthesea12/playlist/0cwefIHqEZsjOAN9Setqz2?si=gMC7l1HNT7-vcZq9vVOv8g)
> 
> Thank you to all for coming on this journey with these characters, and with me.
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts in the comments below, and thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Songs used in this chapter: I wanna be yours by Arctic Monkeys, See America Right by The Mountain Goats. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: graphic depiction of a panic attack and discussion of PTSD symptoms, discussion of grief and suicide (with minor description), sexual content.

__  
Secrets I have held in my heart  
Are harder to hide than I thought  
Maybe I just wanna be yours  
I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours — Arctic Monkeys 

~~~

Jughead glares down at himself, where he’s tented beneath his boxers. _Now_ his dick decided to cooperate. Sighing heavily, he rises from his spot on the floor, where he had managed to get maybe an hour of sleep in total. When he did sleep, his dreams had been vivid, of Betty’s legs curled around him and the taste of her beneath his lips.

Shame filled him, and he had to close his eyes against it, breathing heavily. He feels himself go limp, and shoves his jeans and jacket on. He deals with the uncharacteristic arousal he’d woken with, the same way he had dealt with it the infrequent moments it approached him behind bars; blatantly ignoring it until it withered, dried up, and crept somewhere away from his waking thoughts.

Shaking himself awake, he finds his sister waiting for him in their kitchen, bag swung over her shoulder and ready for work.

“Where were you last night?” she questioned, “the truck was gone.” 

He braced himself, leaning his knuckles on the kitchen counter, glancing away from her. He speaks in an even tone, careful. “Did you ask Betty to help you look for colleges?”

There’s a pause, silence, and it’s enough of an answer. Guilt washes through him, he feels filthy with it. “So, all this time, when you said—” his voice breaks, as JB cuts him off.

“—Jug. It wasn’t… it wasn’t like I ever thought it was even an option, but then… then Amy left,” her voice quakes, and he just wants to reach for her, but he stays where he is. “And Betty and I were talking, and I just…” she breathes in, pausing. “It’s just an idea, you know. It doesn’t have to be this big thing.”

He nods, eyes trained on the cabinets above his head, thoughts racing. All the things she’d put up with, all the opportunities she’d missed. Because of him. Because of their family. 

With that, he leans toward her, arm over shoulder, and drops a kiss to the top of her head. “Okay, Jellybean,” he offers, trying to push down his own fears. 

When he drops her off at _Cooper’s_, he can see Betty all lit up inside, sweeping. She’s in her apron, hair up, and she looks like the epitome of _put together_. His stomach drops, hands sweating. He’s not _ready_ for this, this conversation they need to have. So, he does what he keeps on doing to Betty — he runs from her.

As soon as JB is out of the truck, he reverses out, speeding down the quiet mainstreet of their shitty town. Turning the music up and drumming his hands in time with the beat, _I was getting out of jail, headed to the Greyhound_. He feels something churning at him from the inside out, so that he’s raw and unnerved, exposed. _You said you'd hop on one yourself and meet me on the way down_. Memories flood every street he passes, and he roams, speeding past the suburban homes, the trailer park, the river his only constant as he follows it’s path.

_I was shaking way too hard to think, dead on my feet, about to drop. Went and got the case of vodka from the car and walked the two miles to the bus stop._

The steering wheel creaks under his hands, as he swerves around corners too fast, the town rushing past him at the speed of his heart.

The sun rises as his gas gauge goes down, and he drives in loops, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Nothing slows him, nothing settles him down. He feels like he’s back to that first day, that first day inside, when he’d finally grasped the reality of the time ahead of him.

Five fucking years, the same shitty people. The same shitty food. No choices, no variation, no disorder but the randomized violence he came to see from inmates and guards alike. Just him and all the other guys penned in and being herded further along their hopeless lives.

His brakes screech as he shoves his foot down, slamming the hand brake up and parking messily by the side of Sweetwater. When he puts his feet on solid ground, it wobbles beneath him, and his knees give. He slumps against his truck, gasping for air, tear tracks down his face.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fucking fuck,” he whispers, under his breath, shaking violently. 

Eventually, the violent tremors rushing through him ease off, and he’s left in the wake of it, heart slowing and every muscle in his body clenched like he’s poised, on the edge. 

He closes his eyes and he sees Joaquin, bleeding out in their cell. He opens them and he’s still there, the memory gripping him and not letting him go.

Retching against the images flashing before him, he struggles to gather himself, shoving his head in his hands and trying to breathe.

In, and out.

In, and out.

With a shaky hand he gets out his phone, dialing. It rings a few times, time enough for Jughead to think, but not long enough to know what to _say_.

“Jug?” Archie answers, voice rough with sleep. 

He tries to answer, makes a small noise in the back of his throat.

“... Is everything okay?” Archie asked, concern flooding his tone, “Jughead?”

Finally, _finally_, Jughead finds his voice, but the sound is foreign to him, echoing in his head. “Arch.. I’m. I don’t think I can make it to work today,” he explains, the tremors in his voice obvious and giving him away.

“Sure, buddy. Are you okay?”

“I…” he has nothing. Would Arch believe him if he said he was sick? “I… ” he can’t think of a lie, can’t offer anything. “I’m at Sweetwater river.” 

That’s all he says, but for Archie it’s all he needs. Voice somber, he asks, “What side?”

Relief floods through Jughead, as he relaxes into the ground beneath him, leaning against his truck door heavily, letting it hold his weight. “Close to town, by the old train station,” he explained, voice still stilted and jolting.

“Okay,” Archie says, “I’ll be there soon, man.”

The call ends, and for the first time in forever, Jughead cries, and just lets it happen. 

_Sobs_. His body shakes with release as he covers his face with his hands, crying violently and without end. 

Archie finds him like that, twenty minutes later. Piles him into his car, drives him home. Doesn’t talk, not yet.

It’s not until there’s a mug of coffee in his hands, and Jughead’s outburst has ceased, that Archie even tries. 

“Jug, I’m worried. Say something, please.”

Sighing heavily, Jughead replies, “Thank you, for the ride.” 

Archie places a careful hand on his shoulder, and he flinches beneath it, tensing. “Do you want me to call Jellybean?” Archie asks.

“No!” It’s abrupt, his response, and he repeats it, quieter this time, but final. “_No._”

“What’s going on, Jughead?”

“I… don’t know,” he replies, honestly. But the look in Archie’s eyes tells him he’s not going to drop this, not going to let it go. And, fuck, some part of him knew that when he called him. Some part of him knows he needs to say something, anything, out loud, or he’ll continue on this path of self-destruction.

_Just like his dad._

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he tries to explain, “It’s… it’s like ever since I got out, I can’t…” He exhales, trying to find the words. “I can’t move on. I wake up every day and I feel the exact same as I did inside. Stuck. _Useless,_” he says, and he knows it’s not enough, doesn’t explain all of what he’s feeling. But it’s all he’s got. 

Archie is quiet for some time, assessing. Finally, he responds, and the answer shocks him enough to look at him, really look at him.

“You know, years ago, I started going to a support group,” Jughead makes a noise of disbelief, but Archie continues, “it was Ronnie’s idea. After the shooting… well, you know how I was. Eventually, things were better, good, even. But then… as we got older, sometimes, when Ronnie and I would argue, or something would happen to set me off— I'd just get so angry, you know? And I lashed out, a lot.

“Eventually, Ronnie made it clear. Get help or lose her, and. Well, I chose her. 

“The group, it’s for people who’ve experienced, you know, ‘post-traumatic stress’.” Archie air-quotes the label, scoffing a little at it, but there’s a pause, and Jughead gets it, what he’s not saying. 

“This is why you’ve been so...” different, Jughead wants to say, but reconsiders. “Level-headed?”

Archie nods. “Look, even if… even if you just gave it a try. I still think it could help. You know, just talking to someone. There are more groups, not just the one I go to.”

Jughead considers. The idea doesn’t exactly sit comfortably with him, but he can’t deny his friend is miles away from the hot-headed kid he’d known as a teen. And, regardless. He knows. He _knows_ something is wrong with him, something he doesn’t understand. It’s not like how it was before he was inside, before Joaquin. He can’t hide like he used to, because all that keeps happening is that he keeps hurting people.

Jellybean. Betty. 

“I’ll… think about it,” he states. 

~

Hours later, with Archie gone, he’s looking up the names of the groups Archie had given him, researching. Words like _flashbacks,_ jump out at him, along with _guilt, isolation, insomnia,_ and, finally, _sexual dysfunction_. His face heats at that, dread and shame rushing through him.

He slams his laptop shut when the front door opens, JB entering, a wary look in her eye. In the distance, he hears what he guesses is Betty’s car, driving away. He feels… small. Shaken. 

“So,” JB opens, tone reproachful. “You _yelled_ at Betty about the college thing? In the middle of the night? _Seriously_?”

He’s dragged back to reality abruptly, and shrinks within himself. Yeah. He’d been a fucking _dick_. And then, after, he’d run off. He didn’t even want to think about what she thought of him. Obviously, she’d mentioned it to JB. Probably, he reasoned, she had not mentioned the other thing though, the way he had kissed her and then disappeared, or he imagines this conversation would be going quite differently. 

“It was stupid, okay?” There’s no explanation that he can offer that JB wouldn’t be pissed at him about. Like his fear over her leaving Riverdale, of her being let down. “I didn’t… I thought she was pushing you in that direction, not that you’d asked her about it.”

JB seems to notice his demeanour, and she halts what he’s sure would have been an impressive speech. Instead, she comes to sit next to him, looking him up and down.

“Jug…” she starts, tentatively. “You know, this isn’t… I’m not leaving you, you know? I just wanted to… to know, like. If there was anything out there for me, outside of Riverdale. But, I’m not going to just _leave_. Not when I just got you back.”

“You should, though. Your life has been on hold enough, because of me.” And it’s probably the most honest he’s been with her, recently. 

JB sighs, exasperated. “_Jughead_. Get your head out of your ass, okay. I love you but, fuck. If I had wanted to leave sooner, I would have. Got it?”

He snorts, grateful for her blunt manner. “Yeah, I got it.”

“Now, apologize to Betty. She didn’t say it but I could tell she was pretty upset today.”

She says it as she’s leaving the room, and his blood runs cold.

How does he even approach that conversation?

~~~

Friday night finds Betty on Veronica’s couch, drunk and rambling. 

“And then, he just runs off, like nothing had happened. And I haven’t heard from him since, and it’s like? Am I meant to call? Keep waiting?” 

She lets out a noise of frustration, draining her glass of wine and indicating at Veronica for a refill, who obliges. Uncharacteristically, however, Veronica plays advocate for Jughead.

“B, girl. I hear you. But he’s not the most _social_, if you get my drift. He’s probably terrified of his feelings, like most men,” Veronica talks over Betty as she tries to interject, adding, “and yes, that does make him a coward, absolutely. But I’ve never seen him with a girlfriend, ever. So, you can probably add clueless to cowardly. That kind of combination? He may need some persuading toward communication.”

Slumping back on the couch with her wine, Betty stares into it, mumbling and disgruntled.

“Archie said something about Jughead having it rough this week, and he had to go pick him up at some early hour a few days ago. I don’t think he’s… doing so well. He may not be ignoring you on purpose.”

“You’ve changed your tune about him,” Betty points out, but she’s not accusing. Just surprised.

“Yes, well. After the party, what with Cheryl,” Veronica pauses, tossing her ebony waves over her shoulder. “I realised there were _many _people in this town with a lot to answer for.” Examining a perfectly manicured hand, she continues, “My family included.” 

There’s contrition in her tone, some kind of self-reflection Betty had not seen from her before. She’s struck with curiosity, interested in what Veronica knows. Because, Betty knew why _she_ disliked Cheryl, but what did Veronica know? What did the Lodge’s have to do with it?

“... What about Cheryl, V?” 

Veronica eyes her, scrutinous. “The Blossoms are dirty, and while Jason ran away right after high school, it took Cheryl _much longer_ to abandon the family _business_.” 

So. Veronica’s not as in the dark as Betty had assumed. 

Continuing to feign ignorance, Betty presses. “Family business?”

“Drugs, Betty,” she states, bluntly. “It’s not commonly known, but Cheryl and I, we’ve been… friends, enemies, acquaintances. Rivals, at times. I learned everything I could about her and her family, because _’knowledge is power_,’ and in doing so I learned of my own father’s involvement.” 

She sighs, something clouding her expression. “The… it all died down, a few years ago, when the Serpents drove a rival gang out of town and the Blossoms lost their distribution and muscle, and my parents relocated back to Manhattan.” She clears her throat, hand playing with the pearls delicately placed along her collarbone. 

“But I guess, in my judgment of Jughead, I’d let myself forget, what it had been like, how none of us had been guiltless. My problem with Jughead… it was an old resentment, from a time when I felt I was beyond reproach. I can see that now. Archie, he. He helped me see.”

Blown away, Betty exhales. “So… what? The Blossoms just… went legitimate? Gave up the drug trade?” She’s doubtful. 

Veronica lifts a shoulder, tilts her head to the side in thought. “My guess? They moved it out of town, away from them. Good riddance.”

“When you said… you said Jason left? Was he ever involved?”

“Like I said, Cheryl and I were friends, once. She let it slip, that Jason had rejected his family, that when he ran away he’d made it clear he didn’t want anything to do with them. It got out, that he’d refused the Blossom empire, and it was all anyone could talk about. Of course, most people didn’t know the truth, about the Blossom businesses, and assumed he was just rebelling, like a poor little rich boy. But he didn’t even return to Riverdale to visit until a few years ago, when he had been living with Cheryl in L.A for a while.”

The part of Betty that has always been riveted by mystery was glued to her seat, desperate to know more. The part of her that was more specifically concerned about Jason for the sake of her family, that part relaxed in relief. These past months, she’d been in constant anxiety, in fear for her niece and nephew, about what kind of family they were being exposed to. But, it seemed _maybe_ at least some part of Jason was the kind of person Polly thought he was.

She lets herself relax, let go. Her and Veronica finish another bottle of wine, and her head is swimming when she gets an Uber home, stumbling out of the car and thanking the driver. She comes up short when she reaches her front steps, however.

Because, of course, _of course, _here he is. 

Drunk and incoherent, she says it aloud, “Oh, there you are.” Then she promptly trips over her own feet, drops her keys, her phone, and before he can catch her she’s landed on her hands and knees.

He states the obvious, “You’re drunk.”

She closes her eyes because his face is spinning. “What are you,” she hiccups, “doing here?”

He helps her up her stairs, taking her keys and ushering her inside. “It’s… obviously not a good time.” He looks like he’s about to leave, but then she stumbles again, and he catches her this time. “Woah,” he exclaims, “okay, let’s get you some water.”

Things get blurry, then. She remembers him helping her up the stairs to her room, and the next thing she knows, her three a.m alarm is blaring and her head is pounding, and she’s all alone. 

She groans in agony, tossing her phone across the room and shoving her comforter over her face. The room had stopped spinning, but her head felt like it’d been smashed into concrete.

Daydreaming about a cool glass of water, she licks her lips, chapped and dry. Oh, dehydration, then. 

When she finally pulls the comforter back down, she slowly sits up, squinting her eyes at her bedside table, lit up by the moonlight. There’s a glass of water, and two Tylenol.

Huh. 

Downing them both, she heaves herself from her bed, collecting her phone. There’s just one message, and her heart leaps to her throat.

_Drink all the water. We can talk tomorrow, if you want. Sleep well, Betty._

Jughead. She checked the time stamp on the message, eleven forty five p.m. He had waited at her doorstep, who knew how long. Then, he had all but carried her to bed. Made sure she looked after herself the morning after.

She sniffed, feeling awful that she’d missed the chance to talk, last night, because of her own stupidity.

_Thank you_, she replied to him, not expecting a response at this early hour. She heads to her shower, intent on washing the night before from her, thoughts racing, about her conversation with Veronica, and what Jughead would want to talk about, what he might say.

There’s a reply, when she checks her phone again.

_You’re welcome_.

Work that day dripped by slowly, her ability to function severely impaired, and when the day is done, she collapses on her couch, falling asleep, not rousing until it was dark outside.

When she wakes, her phone shows there are 2 text messages and a missed call.

**Jughead 5.00 pm: **  
_Hey, would you want to get dinner tonight?_

**Jughead 7.55 pm:**  
_It’s ok, we don’t have to get dinner. but I would really like to talk to you. If you want. _

Then, he had called. After, nothing. Like he’d just given up. 

Hitting redial in a hurry, she listens to the dial tone with her heartbeat increasing steadily, biting her thumbnail and tapping her leg in a fast paced rhythm.

“_Come on, pick up_,” she whispers.

When he answers, her heart jumps to her throat, and all movement ceases suddenly.

“Betty— hi,” he greets, voice muffled.

“Jughead, I’m so sorry. I fell asleep after work, I didn’t... I wasn’t… I do. I mean, I do want to see you. To talk,” she explains, in a rush. 

He lets out a sigh on the other end, as if he’d been holding his breath. “I can come by?”

“Sure, yeah. Please,” she responds, nervous.

“I’ll see you soon, then.”

~

Before he arrives, she paces the hall, mind racing between one possibility to the next.

On the one hand, he had reached out to her. Not once, but twice. He was… approaching her. Making an effort. 

However, the last time she’d seen him, discounting the evening before, he had run away. Sure, he had kissed her. And then…

_God_, she’d been obsessing. She just needed some clarity, some answers.

When the doorbell rings, everything falls into stark relief. No matter what, she resolved that tonight, she wouldn’t accept half-answers, or him escaping before giving her some clue as to what was going on. No, she was going to demand it. Nothing more or less than the truth. 

He’s leaning against her door, beanie in place on his head and Serpent jacket hugging his shoulders.

“Can I come in?”

~

She draws in a shaky breath as the silence lingers between them, her heart thudding in her chest as he eyes her cautiously from beside her. 

Something shifts in his stance, before he turns to her, facing her head on. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “for the other night, for… I shouldn’t have yelled at you, about Jellybean. I know how much you’ve helped her.” He stops, considering. “Also, I shouldn’t have walked away. I should have explained. ”

She remembers how he had reacted to her touch, how there was clearly something she didn’t know, didn’t understand, and guilts seeps again through her. “Jughead, _I’m_ sorry, if I did something to— you told me you needed time, and space, and then— did I push you? Was it too fast? Or…” she trails off, letting her questions linger between them.

“I wanted— it was— you don’t have anything to apologize for, Betty.”

She looks at him, perhaps with skepticism, with confusion.

He leans into her, slowly, cautious. She doesn’t move, watching him, waiting.

He presses his lips gently against hers, and she responds immediately, a hand coming to the back of his neck and holding him in place.

The kiss deepens, and as Betty slips her tongue into his mouth he draws her body ever closer so she’s almost straddling his thigh. The mood shifts drastically, and suddenly all she can feel is desperation to be ever closer, a soft moan escaping her throat before she can push it down. Her head is cloudy, body overheated, suddenly and completely. 

Jughead freezes beneath her, the air thick with apprehension. Reluctantly, Betty shifts back to look at him, a question in her eyes.

“Are you okay?”

He won’t meet her eyes, but his arms are still around her. She figures that means there’s something he wants to say, but is afraid of her reaction. “Jug?” she urges, in a soft voice, her hand reaching up to his face, stroking her thumb gently there in an echo of how he had touched her on New Years Eve, all those months ago.

He swallows heavily and he squeezes her hips in what she expects was meant to be a gesture of reassurance, before letting her go to pull at his hair, a move she recognizes now as a nervous tic.

Glancing at her briefly, before flicking his eyes to somewhere over her shoulder, he responds, “I…” he shakes his head, as though he’s trying to clear his thoughts. 

Suddenly, his gaze is pinning her down, eyes bright with earnest, and something else she can’t name. It looks like fear. “I want you.” His voice breaks slightly on the last word. “But for the last...” he opens, stops. The breath leaves him in a heavy exhale. “I don’t know how long, I haven’t... Since I got out of prison, I haven’t.” He closes his eyes. “Fuck, why is this so hard to talk about?” he questions, rhetorically. 

“I haven’t… _wanted anyone,_ the way I want you, not since. But, sometimes, I feel that, and I just… feel panic.” Betty frowns in confusion, her nose wrinkling and heart still thudding a quickened pace at his admission.

“What do you mean?”

Jughead can’t take it anymore and looks away, dropping his head to the back of the couch, glaring at the ceiling in the hopes it will open up and the sky will just absorb him before he has to go any further with this _fucking conversation. _

“I mean I panic and I don’t… _respond_, physically, the way... I’ve wanted to. I promise, Betty. You didn’t do anything wrong, you never do. It’s just, what I feel,” he swallows, his throat dry and cheeks burning despite himself, “with you, it’s… intense, you know. And it’s... sometimes. It’s too much.”

The tension in the air seems to crackle against Betty’s skin as what he’s saying sinks in. Whatever she had expected him to say, it certainly had not been that.

“Oh.” It comes out breathy, girlish and soft, and now it’s her turn to reassure him. “Juggie. That’s okay. We can… whatever you’re comfortable with. I don’t expect anything.” Finally, finally, he looks at her, eyes searching. Whatever he sees there, it makes him relax into her, and when she leans down to kiss him again, he meets her halfway.

There’s temptation to leave it there, to not press, to allow this explanation to stand on its own. But she needs more. She needs to _know_.

“Jughead, you know that I was married, before, right?”

He nods. “Yeah,” he says, tone careful.

“Well… we ended because I was never… I never _liked_ him, you know. He was just… inevitable.” 

She stops, biting her bottom lip. “I like you, Jughead. And you should… you should know what that means, for me. It’s not… fleeting. I mean, I want to know more of you, the more I learn. I want to _be _with you. And if you don’t feel the same, if I’m… alone, in this. Please, tell me now. _Please._”

He opens and closes his mouth, twice, bringing a hand to her neck. His thumb traces he jaw, and she shivers, eyes tracing between his eyes and lips, caught on pause, tense and hoping. 

_Hoping_.

“You’re not alone in it, Betty.” Something snaps between them, and her whole body relaxes, and they fold inward, toward each other. 

She shifts back, slightly, just to see his face properly. A small smile is playing on her lips.

“So, then. What would you say, to going on a date with me tomorrow?” she asks.

He responds to her smile in kind, and answers in the affirmative. “I’d say yes, Betty.”

~

Betty’s bedroom floor was piled up with every item of clothing she owned, and it’s only when she realized she’d tried every conceivable date outfit possible that she noticed.

Hair wild around her shoulders, dressed in her fluffy pink robe and bunny slippers, she trudged to her sisters room in defeat.

When Polly opens the door, Betty immediately sticks her bottom lip out, pouting in her best impression of how she used to when they were kids. “Polly, please, _please_ help me.”

Polly, thankfully, laughed at her for a good amount of time, but agreed to help. 

That was, truthfully, the only reason she’d managed to look somewhat presentable, waiting for Jughead outside the Bijou, leg jittering, nerves warring with excitement.

_’On my way,’_ he had texted, twenty minutes prior. She had been early, her overzealous punctuality an outcome of her anticipation.

It was, ostensibly, just a movie date. 

It was also impossible for it to feel like ‘just’ anything, with their many months of dancing around this, of the push and pull. 

“Betty,” Jughead appears across from her, and she takes a moment to appreciate his clearly apparent effort. His beanie was nowhere to found, hair combed and smooth. Her eyes drifted down the buttons of his shirt, to his dark wash denim pants.

The breath left her lungs. “_Hi._” She stepped forward, offering a brief hug in greeting. She breathed him in, for a moment, overwhelmed. 

God, she just _wants_. 

When they’re situated at their seats in the theatre, Jughead already snacking on his super sized bucket of popcorn, he turns to face her, amusement clear in his eyes. 

“So, the horror double feature? I’m impressed, Betty,” he prompts, commenting on her choice for their first date. In honesty, she may have asked JB for advice (who had proceeded to squeal louder than Betty knew a human being could, and then grilled her for details for an entire hour,) and she had taken it on board wholeheartedly, not wanting to spook Jughead with a three-course meal at Giovanni’s, or worse, her place. Sure, the movies were a little _high school_, as Polly had not-so-kindly mentioned, but. She didn’t care, she was done following someone else’s script for her love life — she just wanted, more than anything, to enjoy herself. 

So, she snorts indelicately, sipping her coke. “Yeah, well.” She takes a long sip, swallowing the icy drink before responding, “The Exorcist is a classic.”

He smiles, freely, and it makes her heart skip. “I could not agree more.”

Of course, she talks a big game, but nothing will ever make her brave enough to watch Linda Blair’s head spin like that without turning away and hiding her face. She can hear Jughead laughing at her, so she takes a handful of his popcorn, shoving it in her mouth with an eyebrow raised in challenge. 

He makes an indignant noise, before stealing her coke, draining the last of it. When she hears the straw hit air at the bottom she puts on her best faux offended look, before dissolving into gentle laughter along with him. They receive disapproving glances from their fellow movie-goers, and she shifts in her seat, trying to compose herself.

It’s _nice_, just being with him. Beside him. She casts furtive glances his way as much as she can get away with, taking in his stance, the curve of his smile, the gentle way he leans toward her to whisper about movie trivia, how he leaves his hand on the armrest between them, palm up. A familiar offering, and when she takes his hand, as she has always done when offered the chance, she realises they’re actually _doing this_. In public, for all to see. He’s not running, or hiding away.

Her heart swells, and she squeezes his hand, capturing his attention.

When his eyes land on her, she drifts forward, lips brushing his.

“I’m so glad you said yes,” she whispers, and when he opens his lips to reply, she captures them in her own. They sink into each other, eyes closing, exchanging breath.

He lets out a soft noise when her tongue brushes his, and his hand lands on her cheek, thumb tracing her jaw. 

When they emerge from each other, the credits roll before them on the screen, the overhead lights of the theatre blinking on and revealing how much time had passed in which they had been wrapped up in each other, distanced from their surroundings.

Nothing, nothing had ever felt like this.

~~~

Time rushes rapidly by her in a whirlwind of work, babysitting, dinners with Veronica, and tiptoeing around Polly, who had been re-adjusting to solo parenthood with the renewed absence of Jason. The most significant portion of her time, however, is spent with Jughead.

On their second date, he had taken her on his motorcycle to a small historical town a few hours out of Riverdale, and they’d spent the entire day exploring. 

On their third date, JB had joined them, because Betty couldn’t quite assuage the guilt she would feel if she had cooked dinner for Jughead and not his sister. JB had jumped at the opportunity to interrogate them both, and the fondness with which Jughead embraced his sister’s mocking was plain. It solidified whatever was sitting inside her heart, that warm glow that had grown and grown until one day, it had felt more permanent than temporary.

It was now the end of date nineteen, and she was pretty certain she didn’t need to count anymore. 

“Wait, _you’ve_ read Tressell?” he asks her, incredulous.

“What, why is that shocking?”

He assesses her, before recognition rests there. “Huh. You’re right, I guess it isn’t all that surprising,” he accepts. 

There’s a moment where she waits for his rebuttal. But she realises it’s just that easy, that he accepts her version of herself, as she tells it. No second-guessing, no persuading until she changes her mind, until she melds her perception and truth to fit the version of her that others have constructed.

“What?” he questions, sensing a shift in atmosphere.

She remembers herself, glancing around his room, where they were curled around each other, the movie on his laptop long forgotten. 

“Nothing,” she replies softly, tracing his bottom lip with her index finger, feeling his breath hitch beneath her skin, and her knee curls into his thigh, drawing them together. “I was just thinking…” she sighs, lightly, rolling to her back to glance at the ceiling, before turning her neck and facing him once more. 

“Hmm?” 

She thinks of Mark, so confused by her atypical interests. Of her mother, who had dictated every one of her hobbies until she had grown old enough to fight for a choice. Of her father, who had made her second-guess every decision she had ever made with a well-timed jibe. 

And she knows it’s terrible. What she wants to say. But, Jughead… he makes it feel okay, less terrible.

“Sometimes…” she stops herself. The words remain in her throat like bile, sour and disgusting. But he looks at her head on, eyes searching, and suddenly the shame isn’t enough to stop the words leaving her. “Sometimes I’m grateful that they… that they’re gone.” She chokes on the last word, and drops her eyes to the comforter beneath them. “My parents, I mean,” she clarifies unnecessarily. Her fists try to curl together, against her will, against everything she had worked so hard for. But he clasps them in his hands, unknowingly stopping her from hurting herself. She continues.

“Not – not that I don’t miss them. God. Every day. But it’s just…” she shrugs slightly, “Everything with them always had to be a certain way. And I could never… I could never just, do something because I wanted to do it. It always had to be, like, I’m a cheerleader because it’s good for college admissions, or – I’m marrying Mark because he has a good job and can give me a stable life.” She grimaces, eyes meeting Jughead’s again. “And I know that, if they were still around, not a single thing in my life would simply be about what I want. And now that I have that – I don’t think I could ever give it up.”

Jughead frees one of her hands to raise his to her cheek, fingers stroking her tenderly along her temple, brushing a thread of hair behind her ear. “Betty.” It comes out as a sigh, and his eyes trap her gaze. “You know that doesn’t make you a bad person, right?”

She glances over his shoulder, staring at the bubbling wallpaper, a lump forming in her throat. “I – I don’t… it just makes me feel like a _really_ shitty daughter.”

He’s shaking his head, pulling her to his chest, and holding her there. She feels so exposed, she’s never revealed anything like this about herself to another person before, these were the words she hadn’t even felt brave enough to reveal in therapy.

He sighed, sitting up and leaning on his elbow, so that he’s looking down at her, through her. She holds her breath, waiting. 

“You’re allowed to have complicated feelings about your parents. It doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

She exhales, and they share a look. Because of course, he knows what she means. He had talked about his mother, just that once, but it tugged at her memory, and she feels cradled in a state of recognition, the comfort of revealing your most terrible truth to someone who says, in turn,_ I’m still here, it’s okay, you don’t have to hide from me._ Her eyes trained on his hands, swallowing painfully, fighting the sting of salt in her eyes.

“Betts, the world’s only less shitty because you’re in it. Trust me.” The words pull from him automatically, and he sounds embarrassed, which means he’s being honest. 

The smile spreading across her face is entirely involuntary, and she has to see his face for this, because she just knows it’ll be covered in her favorite expression of his – the one where he looks simultaneously overjoyed but entirely miserable about it.

When she sits up and looks at him, she’s not disappointed, and her smile widens further. “Jughead Jones. That might actually be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

He breaks, and they’re both laughing softly. “Shut up,” he murmurs. 

She captures his mouth with her own, and he deepens the kiss instantly, sucking on her bottom lip the way he had learned early on only makes her press closer, asking for more.

They move toward each other instinctively, this part familiar to each of them now. Hot breath mingles with her own and when she traces her hands up his spine, pressing in, he lets out a moan, one that makes her ache with want, a feeling she was now well-versed in quelling. Since that first night, when everything had rushed forward and then halted abruptly, she had been cautious. Careful. While she would give anything to feel him, to just dispose of the layers between them and know, _know_ what it feels like to have him so close, sliding into her. While that was often the subject of almost every one of her day dreams, while the anticipation at times felt unbearable, she knew. She knew that what he was trusting her with, this thing between them, could crush beneath the fingers of someone who took too much too fast.

And more than the want she feels in her chest, her abdomen, trembling along the goosebumps of her arm as he kisses her neck in gentle traces, more than that, she wants this thing between them to thrive, to grow. 

She slows the pace, placing distance between their bodies, catching her breath.

“How about that movie?” she asks, and there’s something there, in his eyes, when she pulls away.

But she’s done trying to read minds — if he wants something, he’s going to have to ask.

~~~

It takes Jughead three tries before he is able to attend his first support group meeting, two towns over, a group he found specifically for men reintegrating after incarceration. 

The first three times, he drives all the way there, and parks outside. Sits in his car, chain smoking, before turning right back around to Riverdale.

When he’s able to actually make himself go inside, it takes him five meetings before he is able to share.

Things don’t go easily, for him. After his first meeting, he hadn’t been able to go to work or talk to Betty for a week.

But he’d told her, before going silent. He’d warned her. And, it seemed, that made all the difference for Betty Cooper. 

And her patience with him, her comfort, freely offered without condition — that was what made all the difference for him.

~

He watches her move around her kitchen, the concentration on her face as she measured carefully, the way her muscles moved as she whisked. 

She wipes flour onto her forehead, a streak of batter drying on the tip of her nose. He smirks, heart beating faster at the sight, at being allowed this view of her.

Glancing down at his laptop, he stares at the words he had written, but they were mixing together on the page, eyes tired and unable to continue focusing. He closes it down, drawing Betty’s attention from where she was delicately placing trays of pastries on the bench to cool.

Polly had left that morning, with Kyle and Beth, to visit Jason and Cheryl Blossom in L.A.

Betty had called him with the news, barely contained anxiety clear in her voice, asking him to come over. Since he had arrived she had alternated between pushing him up against any available surface and kissing him breathless (which, he had no objection to whatsoever), and baking (again, he had no objections).

But, now, it was nearing midnight, and he yawned behind his hand, blinking rapidly. 

“You should stay,” she states, casually, the offer given as if it had been many times before.

This was the first time she’d ever asked, and his heart tumbled as he considered saying no. 

“Okay,” he said, before he could change his mind.

There’s an awkward air between them, for a moment, and Betty bridges the space between them, coming to stand between his legs, arms draping over his shoulders so he has to lean back a little to look up at her. He swipes the baking debris from her face and she flushes in realization, before speaking. “There’s no pressure,” she says, unnecessarily. “Just… it’d be nice to wake up together.” She bites her lip, face shy, and he swallows as his mouth goes dry, nodding. 

Anticipation battles dread, because the bed issue was one he still struggled with, and it also happened to be an issue he had never voiced to Betty, unsure of his explanation.

Soon, he forgets his concern, because she is in front of him, dressed in her night shirt and shorts, the same thing she was wearing the night they had first kissed. His pulse increases, sight honing in on her and nothing else. Her face is pink and scrubbed clean of flour, hair in wild waves, loosened out of her ponytail. His eyes traced her petite body, creamy thighs visible and a peek of her stomach as her shirt rides up, while she folds down the comforter, removing the variety of throw pillows neatly arranged on her bed.

He breathes in through his nose, and out through his mouth. 

All that’s left is a pit of need, aching deep within him. With a cautiously slow pace, he removes his jacket and shirt. She fumbles with the curtains she’s drawing down, eyes locked on his now exposed skin, and he sees her chest rise and fall with each inhale and exhale.

They move around each other, neither inching closer to the bed, Jughead undressing further until he’s left only in his boxers, feeling exposed but bolstered by every meaningful gaze Betty casts over him.

They approach the new territory together, and slide into each side of the bed almost in tandem, lying side by side.

Eventually, the spell breaks, when Jughead leans over, tracing a thumb over her bare shoulder, the breadth of her neck. He feels a pull in his gut, a thump in his heartbeat. 

She moves forward.

They kissed softly at first. Tentative, a question between them. But, as he sinks into her mattress, surrounded by her in every possible way, he’s struck with how present he feels. His mind doesn’t wonder, his body doesn’t react to some unknown threat. Instead, he lets her weight on top of him ground him, her hips askew across his and her thigh curled around him.

When he moves to her neck, peppering her pulse point and moving lower, lower, to the curve of her breast, her hips begin to move in little thrusts, randomly paced, seeking. He curls his hands around her legs, drifting upward, thumbs grazing the base of her shorts, dipping in, and he can feel himself growing hard, the rush of arousal coursing through him. He breathes. Focusing all his senses on _her_, on every move of her body, every sound she utters.

He begins to meet her hips when she thrusts down, almost involuntarily, and her eyes opened abruptly as she ripped her mouth from his and gazed downward, clearly feeling him against her. And _fuck_, he’s _right there_, between her legs, only two thin layers of clothing between them. 

“Jug?” Her voice comes in a whisper, so close he can feel her exhale against his cheek.

He swallows, knowing what she’s asking. “It’s okay,” he says, “I want…” He rolls them, so he’s looking down at her, resting his weight on his elbows, holding his hips from hers for a moment, trying to get some clarity. “Let’s just… is this okay?” he says, asking, wanting.

She nods, brushing her nose against his, pulling him down so he’s resting on her, and fuck, the friction sets him off. He grinds down, and she lets out a gentle moan in response, tugging on his hair, deepening their kiss so it’s hurried, frantic.

Her hands roam over his torso, his back, dipping down his boxers, pulling him against her in a suggestive rhythm, the mirroring of what it would be like, how it could be, if they were fucking.

His fists tremble as he grips the bedsheets, eyes tight shut, and his orgasm hits without warning, without preamble, shaking through him. When it’s over, he collapses face first into her neck, tremors running through him. She traces soft fingers down his spine, whispering into his ear, caressing him. 

He winces at the mess in his boxers, embarrassment threatening him as he glances down. “Shit, sorry,” he mutters. But she captures his chin, forcing his gaze upward.

“It’s okay, Jug,” and she kisses him, tenderly, hips still moving in that same rhythm.

He shifts down, lifting her shirt, casting an eye up with a raised brow. She nods, capturing his middle and index fingers in her mouth and sucking, making him groan at the suggestion. Kissing across her breasts, down, down over her soft belly, across her abdomen and over her midriff, nipping at her hips, scratching blunt nails over her thighs. He wants to sink into her, any part of her, know what it’s like to have her fall apart beneath him.

She thrusts her hips forward, tilting toward his mouth, curling a hand above her and clutching her pillow. Her eyes are clenched shut, mouth open, a little furrow resting between her brows. He moves up to kiss it, brushing his lips over her nose, down to the soft curve of her Cupid’s bow. He lets his index finger run along the band of her shorts, and she shivers beneath him.

“Can I?” he asks, voice hoarse and desperate.

“Yes, anything. Anything,” she repeats, biting her lips, eyes fluttering beneath her lids.

He kisses her, then, because he has to, because he needs it, before moving down again.

She lifts her hips up as he pulls her shorts down, and he kisses up her thighs, suckling at the skin there, getting closer and closer. He can see the soft hair of her, and he brushes a hand over it, making her whine and her leg twitch. 

Finally, finally, he moves his mouth over her, licking in, gently, not wanting to give too much too soon. She’s so responsive beneath him, and soon, she’s talking, her voice breathy and high-pitched, directing him, driving him insane with the need to get her off.

“There, Juggie, just like that,” she directs, holding his head in place. She grinds against his mouth, the taste of her enveloping him.

“Fuck, fuck, Jug,” she groans, loud, unbidden, and he holds her hips down as he goes deeper, thumb flicking her clit in a constant rhythm.

Her foot digs into his spine, holding him in place in every possible way, and he feels it, when all her muscles tense, so he drives harder, deeper.

“Don’t, oh, fuck, please don’t stop, oh my _God,_” she freezes beneath him, suspended, and then collapses against the mattress, limbs going malleable and relaxed, as he coaxes the last of her orgasm from her, kissing her there until she bucks away, pulling him upward.

“Sensitive,” she explains, voice loud within the stillness of the room.

He falls beside her, and she captures his mouth, moaning at her own taste on his lips.

And for the first time in over a year — or, much longer than that, truthfully — Jughead sleeps through the night, in a bed, arms curled around her. 

~

Jughead Jones has never written an ending that he has liked. 

When he was a kid, making up fantasy tales about dragons and princesses, he knew the script. The happy ending, and how it came about.

But it didn’t take long for that illusion to implode. Because the script was always too shallow, too perfect. 

So, he avoided endings. Every piece of fiction he had ever written sat unfinished. 

But, this novel. This thing he had been working and re-working for more than a year, he knew how it ended.

Or at least, he did. _Before_. He’d written the ending before he began, because he knew the narrative he wanted to tell. The narrative of repetition, of hopelessness, of complete and utter powerlessness. 

He read it now and there was a pull in his gut, a lurch, that felt like discomfort. Is this still the story he wants to tell? 

He closes his laptop, staring out at Sweetwater river, watching the inevitability of the river flow, which he had once seen as a grand metaphor for him, for his life. 

But what could make a river change directions? A dramatic shift in landscape.

The walls of his life had expanded, grown, and changed. The ending he’d written for himself didn’t satisfy him anymore. It wasn’t some grand statement of nihilism, it was defeatist. 

And he was so tired of feeling defeated. 

~

It doesn’t come to him until he’s at his mother’s grave, staring blankly at the overgrown weeds that grew there, curling over her gravestone. The sight of a death that had been forgotten. He sees the tended to graves, the ones with fresh flowers.

He’d never visited, not once.

He starts clearing away the weeds, hands getting cut up from the sharp grasses, but not caring, not feeling, because he just wants it to be nice, to be fitting for where his mother, his _mother_, he reminds himself, is buried.

He chokes with it, the guilt of his abandonment.

Breathing through it, he thinks of Betty, of her own grief, and what he had said to her.

_“You’re allowed to have complicated feelings about your parents.”_

He stops, knees deep in the grass, covered in little cuts and hands muddied. Placing a hand on her gravestone, he stills, for what feels like forever.

Slowly, slowly, a thought forms before him, heart aching. 

_I forgive you._

He thinks it, thinks it again, before he says it, out loud, feeling stupid but needing to hear it, make it real.

~

_“The death of anyone is a tragedy, but for many, it’s also invisible. People are lost to the misery and repetition of death and sickness, incarceration and repeat offending, that for many of us, our lives go by in circumstances of horror that would shock and offend, if some would bother to look closer._

_But we don’t have to resign to this, we don’t have to bend to it. _

_Because sometimes people do look closer, and they care. _

_And this is all I wanted to say, really, to Joaquin, was that I cared, and many others did too. No life is worthless, or hopeless, or replaceable. _

_So, at the risk of sounding like I’m begging, because truthfully, I am:_

_Please, care.” _

**Author's Note:**

> comments are wonderful and very much appreciated if you feel like leaving one, and despite my aversion to the source content nowadays, I do miss this nice corner of fandom.
> 
> Story title taken from Laura Marling's 'Wild Fire'.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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